Final Fantasy VIII, Book I
by Micah Rodney
Summary: The first book in a four-part novelization of Final Fantasy VIII. The book covers the contents of the first disk. This updated edition has been edited by M.J. Gallagher, author of the Unofficial Final Fantasy VII Novelization and the Nibelheim Incident.
1. Dedication and Introduction

**Dedication & Thanks**

* * *

This book is dedicated to **M.J. Gallagher** , who has taken my modest project under his wing and given it a new life, and without whom I would not be where I am today.

I would also like to offer a special thanks to the following:

 **Alan Kenny** , **Alex Maine** and the crew at **KupoCon** for everything they do for the fans of Final Fantasy.

 **Xander Williams** , without whom I would never have begun writing this book.

 **Einahpets Noslo** , **Lucretia Zimmerman** , **Chantelle Gousseau** and **Mike Ficklin** for volunteering their time as beta readers.

And finally, to all those who have read my work over the years.

* * *

 **Introduction: With Apologies to Purists**

* * *

I have a storied history of novelization attempts. I have completed a novelization of Final Fantasy VII, which took me seven years to write (appropriately enough). It is complete and utter garbage which absolutely pales in comparison to even my more recent short story attempts. I have attempted to novelize The Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion. It is decent but remains incomplete and I can't imagine at this point that I shall ever finish it. I have attempted to novelize Lightning Returns. It is dreadful, and I had the good sense to cancel it.

Suffice it to say my own faith in my ability to complete the task of novelizing a game was more than a bit rocky. Thus, I vowed that I would break the game up into sensible portions and complete each portion before making it public. In the case of Final Fantasy VIII, we are given convenient end-points, and thus this novelization shall be broken into four books.

But an author must do more than simply write a game script. We must inject ourselves into the story. Our heart goes into the work and the subject is open to our interpretation. In this novelization I resolved to not change any major plot points, but to allow myself the opportunity to offer my own insight into the way the events played out, and to make minor changes here and there which can offer more context to the character's actions. However, my primary goal was to tell an enjoyable story that remains mostly faithful to the original work, and I believe I have done that.

The name of the first book, Seeds, references both the obvious use of the term SeeD for the elite military arm of Balamb Garden, as well as the main theme of the first book – growth. We see our main heroes, each of them their own manner of prodigy, become more complete through the events of the book. When we first meet them, each seems like they have such incredible gifts, Quistis's nearly eidetic memory, Irvine's gift with firearms, Zell's mechanical knowledge – they all seem to have such obvious gifts which make them seem superhuman even before they receive the true source of their power. But gifts do not a complete person make. It is what we see them do with these talents that will decide who they are. They will stumble, they will fall, but it is not the way we fall, but how we get up that determines who we are as people. This is the first step in a long journey.


	2. Prologue

**Prologue**

It was raining again. The torrent beat down on the small marble structure, a dense fog rolling in with the evening tide. The stars were blotted out; covered in a blanket of clouds. Only the distant beacon of the lighthouse could be seen. Thin wisps of grass peaked out from beneath the stonework, desperate to reclaim the last bits of life-bearing soil. A small field of flowers, some scattered weeds, and the human inhabitants were the only signs of life for miles.

The young boy leaned against the broken pillar and tried to forget his nightmare. His yellow shirt clung to his skin. Loose strands of his brown hair sent drops cascading down his cheeks. It was handy when one wanted to pretend he hadn't been crying. He could barely bring himself to move. He would stand at that very spot until the morning came, and the sunlight washed away the bad dreams in its brilliant glow.

In his dream, he had been alone. Tossed about in a black void, he wandered through an endless nothingness. His feet grew tired as he marched along, shaky steps propelling him forward along the desert. The fading light from somewhere above revealed his path a few footsteps at a time. The boy was seeking somebody important to him but couldn't find her. The darkness had swallowed him whole. Ripples of sweat trickled down the boy's body as he remembered the panicked sensation of time running out. He had reached the edge of his path, the void encircled him, with nowhere left to go. He would die, alone and lost forever in that abandoned corner of infinity.

He awoke before the end came, crying as he always did whenever he had this nightmare. In the morning he knew he would get a reassuring talk from Matron. When the sunlight came all his troubles would be over so long as light ruled the heavens. However, this would not be for a few hours yet. He still felt trapped in the dream somehow, even though his senses served as testament to his present reality.

There was a light from inside, casting an orange field upon the black garden. Out came the slender figure of an older girl. She was a few years older than the boy, and while all the children here looked up to her as a role model, the boy's relationship with her was special. She was his 'Big Sis'. It was true that none of them were related by blood. All of them were orphans abandoned by intentional design or unfortunate circumstance in this backwater repository of the unwanted; the forgotten victims of a senseless war.

Big Sis was different. She had been here the longest, and all the other orphans looked up to her as a figure of both comfort and guidance. However, the young boy had always found her to be something more. Their connection was somehow more tangible. Had he been a bit older the word "soul" might have come to his mind. As it was, he simply felt special when she was around him. There was no metaphor in her title as far as he was concerned. This young woman was his family.

"You had another nightmare," the girl said, matter-of-factly; this was a near nightly occurrence.

"Sis," the boy replied weakly, rubbing his foot along the dirt nervously.

He could never bring himself to look in somebody's eyes. Whenever he was forced to, a bit of that weakness that he tried to bury came unhinged in him. He felt pangs of fear unfitting to a boy of his age. It was as though somebody looking into his eyes could see his soul laid bare.

"You were lost again, weren't you?" asked Sis.

The boy simply nodded and folded his arms. He looked at his Big Sis seeking comfort, but not wanting to actually ask for it. And yet, Sis was magical. She knew exactly what he wanted and pulled him close into a hug, not a thought for her clean, dry dress.

"I… I can never, f-find you," the boy choked out amid stifled tears.

"What's that?"

"I look, and I look, but I can't ever find you. I know if you were there you could save me, but you're never there."

"I'm here right now," Sis said, rubbing his back gently.

"But what if you're not? What if tomorrow I wake up and you're gone? How will I find you?" the boy sobbed.

Sis kneeled slightly and looked the boy in the eyes. She was the only one allowed to do this, and she knew it was the best way to get his attention. While he hid from all the others, fearful of their intrusive judgment, Big Sis never made him feel that way. She gently brushed his hair out of his eyes and put her free hand on his shoulder. Their eyes locked, her vivid brown gazing into his radiant blue.

"I'll be here," Sis said.

The boy rubbed his face and stopped sniffling. He was taken aback by the sudden change in her tone. It was kind but direct. Matron would take that tone whenever she needed to clarify one of the orphanage rules to a troublesome child. Perhaps it was that authoritative quality that Big Sis was trying to emulate here.

"Why?" he asked.

Sis smiled, she had his attention now.

"I'll be waiting here."

"For what?"

Sis took her free hand and poked him in the belly. He let out a soft giggle.

"I'll be waiting for _you_. So, if you come _here,_ " she gestured to the expanse of garden beyond the stone pillar, where the field of white flowers had been blooming, "you'll find me."

A gust of ocean wind came crashing up the coast, sending fresh petals into the air. Amid the snow-white whirlwind of flowers, Sis hugged the boy.

"I promise."


	3. Chapter 1

**Chapter I**

A brilliant white light burned Squall's eyes as he woke. It was annoying but not unsettling; on the contrary, the sensation had become rather familiar. The same was true for everything that followed, a sequence he had endured countless times before. First was the faint, sterile scent of latex and rubbing alcohol, then the soft crunch of leather as his body shifted on the infirmary bed, and finally the concerned frown of a stout, middle-aged woman, who was even wearier of this ritual than he was.

"Easy, Squall," instructed Dr. Kadowaki, laying him gently back down against the headrest. "You took a nasty thrashing out there."

Squall touched his forehead but said nothing. There was a thick gauze bandage over it and smaller, diagonal strips across the bridge of his nose. As effective a job as the pain medication was doing, he could still feel the pressure of the sutures. Hyperion's blade had struck him true; even healing magic would be too late to prevent it leaving its mark.

Outside the window, birds chirped in a nearby tree, their song riding the breeze as it flirted with the curtains and swept through the room. An undecorated wall of olive green loomed on Squall's left and a glass observation screen on his right, with only a stool and washbasin for company. For all Balamb Garden's wealth, it was a basic setup.

"How's your head?" the doctor asked, scribbling something on his bedside chart. She had tied her greying hair in a bun this morning, her medical coat buttoned loosely over her woven skirt and sandals.

"I'll be fine," Squall muttered. He had already troubled her enough.

 _It's my fault anyway,_ he thought, bitterly _._ _I should have been stronger…_

Squall was a regular patient of Dr. Kadowaki's and had learned much about her – decidedly against his will – from the somewhat grandstanding lectures she often gave as she mended him. The way she told it, the medical profession had stripped her of her youth, but she had traded it freely to so noble a practice. She believed there was no higher calling than the nurturing of young minds and bodies.

"Next time Seifer challenges you…" Dr. Kadowaki trailed off, exhaling deeply. She was obviously certain her advice was going to fall on deaf ears. "You need to be the bigger man and walk away. You're training, not trying to kill each other. You might not be so lucky in the future. Know your limits, Squall."

 _It's not that simple…_

This was not just failure; it was yet another loss to his archenemy. The pair had agreed to clash at sunrise, on the bluffs overlooking the Rinaul Coast, a short hike from Garden. As always, Seifer had refused to battle inside the Training Center. The bully preferred the wild; it allowed him to cut loose, to fight dirty.

Squall could not deny that Seifer was the better swordsman, but he was brash and arrogant. More importantly, he was beatable. They had both committed to specializing in a particularly intricate weapon known as a gunblade, a longsword with a fixed trigger mechanism whose firing caused the blade to vibrate at high frequency. While modern gunblades were refined works of art, with their vibrations more lethal and less erratic, there was still a stigma of barbarism to them, and they were incredibly difficult to master.

Seifer had insisted upon naming his gunblade "Hyperion", a reference to the legendary sword. Hyperion was the pen with which he would mark his name in the annals of history – or so he said. In naming his own, Squall had opted for the simpler title of "Revolver"; delusions of grandeur were Seifer's thing. He could not recall which of them had elected to wield the weapon first, but the underlying motive of their training sessions was to prove their respective superiority with a gunblade.

So far, Seifer had never lost.

"I can't just walk away," Squall responded eventually, willing the ground to swallow him up.

Dr. Kadowaki scoffed and doubled down, this time with a hint of elderly condescension. "You wanna be cool, right? Well, don't get yourself killed in the process. I'm going to call your instructor. You're still under Instructor Trepe, yes?"

Squall nodded. He was not looking forward to _her_ thoughts on the matter, either. Closing his cobalt eyes, he listened to Dr. Kadowaki's footsteps as she wandered off in the direction of her office, soon followed by the telltale sound of Quistis' number being dialed.

Harmonizing with the birdsong, Squall heard the chatter of students passing outside the window over his head, no doubt bound for breakfast in the cafeteria. They seemed so jovial, so carefree. For a moment, he tried to imagine what it might be like for them, to know an academic life beyond dueling and strategizing and discipline – to know a life where there was a plan B.

Like every specialist cadet at Balamb Garden, Squall had spent his years preparing to be a SeeD. Unlike many, however, he never attended the optional social functions of the school, nor did he volunteer his time to extracurricular activities unless they directly complemented his existing skills: No early morning walks through the Quad with friends; no friends at all, where possible. As far as he was concerned, those things were all unnecessary distractions. Squall was here to learn, to train, to become the best soldier he could be. That was _his_ purpose; he would leave the niceties to others.

"Instructor Trepe?" Dr. Kadowaki's voice floated from the infirmary office. "Yes, I have one of your students. I… no, it's not too serious, but it'll probably leave a scar. If you could… yes. As soon as you can. Thank you."

Somewhere to his right, he sensed movement, but it was too delicate to be the doctor, and Quistis certainly had not arrived yet. Squall did nothing to acknowledge the presence. Whoever it was, he was in no mood to have a discussion with them right now.

 _A scar, huh?_ he considered, unsure how to feel about it. Truth be told, he had accumulated a handful during his years of combat training but none so immediately visible.

"So, we meet again, Squall," came a woman's soft whisper.

Her voice was not one he recognized as belonging to any of his fellow students, but it did sound vaguely familiar. It was accompanied by the faint scent of flowery perfume that invoked an odd, tangled knot in his stomach: A confused feeling between comfort and tense foreboding. He was not convinced he wanted to open his eyes just yet, but by the time he surrendered to curiosity, it was too late. The strange woman had gone, and all he caught was the parting flicker of a white skirt and blue blouse as she left the sickbay.

 _What was that all about?_

With a shrug, Squall thought no more of it, pressing a hand to his brow as his head began to throb.

It was several minutes later – possibly as much as a quarter-hour – before the infirmary doors opened once more. This time, the approaching footsteps were easily identifiable: Precise, regimented, confident; driven by the kind of purpose that comes from indoctrinated military discipline.

Squall peered up as his instructor entered. Her long, blonde hair was clipped up in a barrette, save for the bangs that framed her pale cheeks. She was clad in her SeeD uniform: A black jacket-and-skirt ensemble with a scarlet tie and patterned lapel. The rays of natural daylight coming in through the gauzy curtains caused its golden trimmings to glimmer with each stride, the outfit as pristine as the day she was awarded it.

Quistis Trepe was only eighteen – a year older than he was – and the youngest-ever instructor at the prestigious school of Balamb Garden. She was in many ways Squall's polar opposite: Where he was unflinchingly rigid in his introversion, she was a bubbly socialite, complete with her own fanbase amongst the student body. Her ambition had taken her far in the short time she had been at the Garden, and it was no surprise that she naturally wanted the same for her pupils.

Stopping at the end of his bed, she gave Squall a half-exasperated-half-sympathetic look. Then, letting out a pronounced, dramatic sigh, she shook her head, pushed her spectacles back up the bridge of her nose, and folded her arms.

"I just knew it would be either you or Seifer."

 _Whatever_ …

Squall ignored the playful reprimand, wincing as he sat up. "Sorry, Instructor. Have I missed homeroom?"

He knew it was too early for the seminar, but he always preferred his conversations with Quistis to remain strictly professional. The tendency of any overly-familiar instructor was to try and get into the heads of their pupils. Squall kept his off-limits.

"We begin shortly," she replied with an air of urgency. "You can walk up with me. Since you're _wounded,_ I'll allow you to attend in your… civilian attire."

Quistis inspected Squall's outfit, one disapproving eyebrow raised. He was still wearing his black leather pants and jacket, the thin fur lining of the latter matted with sweat. The grey t-shirt he wore underneath was badly stained in blood, dirt, and ash, and his combat gloves had been stuffed into his pockets. He was in dire need of a shower and a change. Squall wondered if Quistis was trying to mess with him.

 _Or humiliate me. Something else to thank Seifer for_ …

Groping absently at his collar, Squall's fingers found his silver pendant fashioned in the symbol of an ancient lion, Griever. It was the brother to the ring he never took off, even when in full uniform. Accessories of this nature were generally permitted by the Garden Faculty, so long as they were not too cumbersome. In Squall's case, the ring felt like a personal talisman, a source of his inner strength.

The lion he bore to reflect the lion within.

Revolver would have been returned to his dormitory by the medics who had recovered him; weapons were not allowed in the infirmary. He felt naked without it, but he would have to deal.

"Everything alright in here?" enquired Dr. Kadowaki, suddenly appearing at Quistis' side.

"We were just leaving," Squall mumbled under his breath. "Thank you, Doctor."

As Quistis led him from the infirmary, Squall glimpsed his reflection on the door to Dr. Kadowaki's office. The thick fringe of his brown hair concealed most of the bandages wrapped around his crown, but the gauze over his nose made him look pretty pathetic. He would be a laughing stock in no time.

They exited onto a covered walkway that dissected the courtyards between the hospital wing and the main atrium of Balamb Garden. A handful of students hurried past them, scampering down the steps and cutting across the lawns to reach a small picnic area. The spacious greenery of the neighboring grounds was bustling with activity. Some were enjoying the warmth of the sun, others were preparing for class, and yet more were engaged in tense card duels.

In a quad off to his right, Squall spotted a ball game underway, the teams using a pair of oak saplings as goalposts. He watched them as he ambled along the corridor, frowning as one of their kicks went long, nailing a female cadet on the back of the head. As she turned to berate the players, he lost interest, instead noticing a few staff members gathered under the shade of a nearby canopy, doubtless deep in conversation about the rumors of today's field exam.

Quistis chuckled quietly to herself as the duo passed a little flower patch, nestled between the concrete colonnades. It periodically blossomed with a sweet-smelling kind of yellow tulip, though Squall had never bothered to learn its name. The aroma had a soothing effect; he wondered if the flower was perhaps used in some of the potions and home remedies that Dr. Kadowaki favored.

"Something on your mind, Squall?" Quistis asked, squinting at him over her glasses.

She was his superior, but that did not give her a right to pry at his personal musings. Squall began to voice his dismissive reply, but the instructor matched him.

"Not really," they said in near unison.

This time, Quistis erupted in a fit of giggles, stopping and crossing her arms over her chest. Squall sighed, pausing beside her so she could regain her composure. She was doing it again; she was trying to figure him out.

"What's so funny?" he grumbled, careful to keep his tone respectful.

"Oh, it's nothing," Quistis answered, beaming at him with a bright and friendly smile. Squall knew she was not mocking him, but he still felt somehow violated by the reaction. And the feeling was reinforced by her next words. "I just sense I'm getting to know my student a little better, that's all."

He scoffed, his brows furrowing. "I'm more complex than you think."

"Then tell me, Squall." Quistis moved closer, sunshine twinkling in her azure eyes. "Tell me more about yourself."

"That's none of your—"

"—business," Quistis finished, laughing to herself again as she continued towards the atrium.

* * *

Xu sat on a cushioned bench in Headmaster Cid's office, datapad clutched firmly in hand. She was – with her godlike gift for multitasking – analyzing an array of maps, intercepted orders, and troop deployment intelligence. Curtains of deep brown hair concealed her face as she worked feverishly, piecing together the final plans for the exam. Lesser soldiers might have faltered at the idea of treating life or death missions as if they were a game, and yet Xu had an uncanny knack for strategy.

It was one of the many reasons Cid trusted her. With her tactical prowess and her wealth of field experience, she had risen to the highest rank in SeeD.

Xu would not have traded this role for anything in the world. Despite her insistence that Quistis abandon her aspirations of being a mere instructor and accompany her on assignments, her friend refused to oblige. The two were thick as thieves, having enrolled together nearly a decade prior but opting to differ in specialties. Without the brains and unique talents of Miss Trepe by her side, the job was just not the same.

Today was a rare exception. Quistis' class had three candidates participating in the test, so she was among the nine supporting SeeDs. Of course, they would only see action together if the cadets failed, so her personal desire conflicted with the contract. Xu shook her head, allowing herself a chuckle to clear the childish pang of disappointment, and returned to the task at hand as a shaft of sunlight crept across the office.

The chamber around her was a tasteful affair, located at the pinnacle of Balamb Garden. Circular in shape, it boasted a sprawling window that climbed halfway up the domed ceiling, flooding the space with natural radiance and offering an unparalleled panorama of the forests and mountains to the north of the complex. The room's centerpiece was a modest mahogany desk, decorated with various emblems, including an etching of the Garden crest of entwined sickles. A metal throne stood before the desk, imposing and elitist, a remnant of the original shelter where leaders would receive an audience. Cid was not the type of man to use it, nor was he overwhelmed by the grandeur of the Centran architecture.

The sudden shuffling of feet on the marble floor told Xu the headmaster was currently approaching; she lifted her gaze and nodded to acknowledge his presence. Cid Kramer was in his early fifties, with an appearance more like a banker than a military commander. He had wavy brown hair and full-moon spectacles, his earnest features and strong jaw webbed in smile-wrinkles. Stout in stature, he was squeezed snugly into a sleeveless maroon sweater over a white shirt, complemented by beige slacks.

"How goes it, Xu?" he asked, leaning forward as much as his age would allow to review her strategy.

"Quite well, sir." The SeeD gave a slight shrug, pointing to one of the tabs on the datapad display. "That is to say miserably for Dollet, but good for us."

"The Dollet Peacekeeping Force is no match for the Galbadian Army," Cid concurred. A sullen twitch of his brow betrayed his apprehension for the thirty graduates they had recently sent to the organization. Clearing his throat, he turned to business. "How many applicants today?"

"Twelve. With nine supporting operatives."

"A small strike force," the headmaster remarked, distractedly stroking his green tie. "It's doubtful they'll be capable of driving out the aggressors."

 _That's not the point of this exam, is it?_ Xu's mercenary brain was quick to highlight; perhaps she _had_ been in the profession too long. "Dollet didn't pay enough for that."

"No, I suppose not. We go in, cause a scene, then get the hell out. So long as the citizens are safely evacuated, all is well."

"Are you sure our SeeD candidates can handle this?" she pressed, before clarifying her concern. "I have full confidence in my team, though we're facing an all-out assault. Dollet is a fortified island. Sure, it looks like an ideal testing ground, but I have a bad feeling about this."

"It's not the usual brushfire conflict, that's for certain." He sighed, peering up towards the Garden's colossal golden halo – another structural phenomenon created by the Centra.

"We just need to secure a route out of the city. Make sure the cadets are ready to retreat if things go sour."

"And this experiment will give us the answers you need?"

The headmaster chuckled. "I've found that, if you know what to look for, the smallest of acts can be rather enlightening..."


	4. Chapter 2

**Chapter II**

Far across the oceans to the south of Balamb Garden was an archipelago of rocky, desolate land. These fragmented isles were cradled by a subcontinent whose desert spanned wider than any country. Once a verdant paradise, it had been home to an advanced civilization known collectively as Centra. For four thousand years it had been the beating heart of human progress; a far-reaching sovereignty with influence felt in every corner of the world. They might have ruled the planet until the end of time, so all-consuming was their presence.

However, around a century ago, a calamity had destroyed the ancient utopia. It was neither flood nor fire that led to their downfall, but a celestial event on a cataclysmic scale. Centra had been utterly decimated, leaving behind only the culturally-distinct nations it had spawned: Esthar in the East, Dollet in the West. The last structures of Centran origin were mobile defense shelters, those which had evacuated the doomed continent before the calamity struck.

These colossal bastions were ultimately abandoned and had lain derelict for generations, but had taken on a new life approximately twelve years earlier.

Now called Gardens, they had been reinvented as schools, accepting students between the ages of five and twenty. Balamb Garden was unique in that it was the home of SeeD, an elite mercenary force. Pupils could enter standard areas of study or attempt to join the illustrious organization, where they would serve as for-hire combatants on loan to governments and activists around the world.

SeeD and the Gardens had been founded by an entrepreneur-turned-headmaster named Cid Kramer, a man whose passion for developing young minds was clear.

Squall Leonhart had been a cadet for as long as he could remember. In fact, it was under the advisement of Headmaster Cid that he took up efforts to become a SeeD. He, too, cared little about the money – he was rather utilitarian by nature, even for a trainee – and he was not interested in the associated prestige.

Simply put, Squall felt he belonged there.

Such a view was hardly unusual; many students at Balamb Garden thought of themselves as future SeeD material, despite the group's exclusivity. Nevertheless, he could not really see another option for himself.

There were, of course, countless avenues available to him. The majority of graduates were given preferential commissions within various military organizations, not least the Galbadian Army. Some chose to join the Dollet Peacekeeping Forces, and fewer still served as glorified police captains in backwater towns. Galbadia paid best, though, at least for its officers.

Then there was the role of instructor, but Squall certainly did not fancy himself a teacher. He could maybe pass for a decent weapons trainer, but he was not keen on a homeroom role such as Quistis'. The cadet doubted a position of authority would improve his mood about social gatherings. He had once considered leaving the academy in search of some nice, quiet corner of the world to settle in, taking on a completely unrelated career. That was no good to Squall, as it would be a total waste of his education.

Furthermore, he was too private an individual to fit into the armies of the world. SeeD gave him the perfect amount of autonomy and, if things went well today, he would be joining their ranks.

Squall pondered the imminent exam as he entered the lecture theatre, Quistis at his heels. The sprawling bay window at the rear of the room let in sunlight, albeit muted by the blue tint of the glass. Decorating the walls were rolling waves of deepest cyan, painted in a swirling art style of Centran origin. The effect was marred slightly by the panel in the back corner, whose speaker was responsible for sounding scheduled bells, emergency alerts and, most commonly, the daily announcements, generally delivered by the headmaster himself.

Almost all of the other cadets were already seated among the rows of the homeroom study panels, watching the pair arrive with interest. These computer terminals were state-of-the-art, used in lieu of weighty textbooks and paper reports, and were a database of encyclopedic knowledge. Seifer Almasy sat in his usual steel-and-pinewood booth, as far from the instructor's desk as possible. Leaning back in his chair, his demeanor exuded something suspiciously like disdain towards his classmates and the education process as a whole.

Seifer had neatly-trimmed blond hair, and while he wore the shirt, pants and low-quarter shoes of the Balamb cadet uniform, his extracurricular roles permitted him to adorn a navy-blue vest and an old officer's trenchcoat, the grey material embroidered with a fiery cross on its sleeves. Squall noticed that his chiseled face was now blemished as well; a thin, crimson gash, held together by sutures, mirrored his own. Either bandages seemed too cumbersome to Seifer or Squall's strike had not been as devastating as he had anticipated. Even so, the laceration was remarkably well-healed already.

The mere sight of the boy triggered a flashback of the morning's battle. The duel had begun as it always did, Seifer simply waiting for Squall to make the first move, his gunblade, Hyperion, raised before him. No matter how often he had failed, Squall could never resist taking the opening strike. The flurry of swordplay that followed was little more than a broken cinema reel in his mind.

Squall had seized the upper hand at one point – of that he was certain – but something had stopped him from disarming Seifer at the critical moment. He recalled a bright orange sphere, a fleeting image which caused his injury to burn with renewed fury.

 _Magic_ , Squall realized bitterly. _He used magic in a sword fight._

The white-hot flame had exploded against Squall's body, dazing him, his leather jacket absorbing some of its energy. The last thing he could remember was Hyperion's razor edge slicing through his skin. Blood streaking down his face, Squall had instinctively brought his own gunblade up in retaliation, delivering a twin blow. That must have been when he passed out, waking up hours later in the infirmary, his forehead on fire.

Seifer grinned in amusement when he saw Dr. Kadowaki's patch-up job. If his own fresh wound pained him, he was showing no sign of it.

Squall traipsed down the aisle between the rows on the left side of the lecture theatre, seeking his regular study panel towards the rear. He could feel Seifer's eyes trailing him as he went, and glanced up as he took his seat to catch his rival favor him with a sarcastic nod. He ignored the jibe, instead keying in his password to access his account.

Meanwhile, Quistis resumed her place at the head of the classroom. Her desk boasted its own terminal, linked directly to the wide monitor behind her, presently displaying a moving graphic of the solar system. A bulging brown leather pouch lay atop some paperwork beside the lectern, no doubt containing her more practical items. She brushed aside her golden bangs, straightened her glasses and cleared her throat. The soft voice she had teased Squall with not ten minutes earlier was aptly replaced by a resolute instructor's tone.

"I know some rumors have been flying around since yesterday," she began, surveying the eager faces. "I can confirm they are correct. We have found a suitable contract, meaning this year's SeeD field exam will commence later this afternoon."

A ripple of excited chatter swept over the students. The test date was traditionally somewhat of an enigma, requiring a live battle situation in which to assess prospective SeeDs. Locating armed conflict in the world was not the challenge; identifying duties that could be entrusted to amateurs was rare, even if the rookies were supported by experienced operatives.

 _Not to mention it costs the hiring party a lot less_ …

"Quiet down," Quistis ordered, firmly but politely. This gentler approach was one of the reasons she was so popular, contrasting the stricter discipline of her many peers. "Applicants will have the rest of the day to prepare. Those of you not participating – or who were unsuccessful in the written exam last week – will remain here to study."

Seifer muttered something under his breath, paying the instructor little heed as he scrolled through webpages on his panel. This would be his third attempt at the assessment, yet he was behaving like an accomplished veteran. Squall suspected such inattention and arrogance were part of why he had so far failed to be awarded the rank of SeeD. Quistis, too, noticed the boy's idleness and decided to set him straight.

"Oh, and Seifer?" she added in a not-so-subtle reprimand. He looked up, scowling. "Do _not_ injure your partner during training."

Seifer peered over at Squall, then back to her. Raising a hand to his forehead, he gave a mock salute before slamming it down on the keyboard in frustration. This seemed to satisfy Quistis for the moment.

 _Thanks for that_ , Squall grumbled, lowering his head. _Now I look like an even bigger loser…_

"Those of you sticking around for this morning's class, we will be reviewing the history of the intercontinental train tunnel between Balamb and Timber." Quistis' agenda was met by a collective groan. "If last week's assignments are any indication, this is an area in which you all could use a bit of a refresher. SeeD applicants, you are dismissed."

Seifer stood up hastily, vaulting over his booth and swaggering out of the room without a second glance at Quistis. Squall trudged after, passing his fellow classmates as they began pulling up old newspaper clippings on the iconic railway, the digitized articles appearing no less verbose than the originals.

"Squall, I'd like to speak with you for a moment," Quistis called, summoning him to her desk with a flick of her hand. He suspected he knew what was on her mind; it had been on his, too. "My records are showing you haven't completed the prerequisite assignment yet. Is this correct?"

 _I've been trying to do it for weeks, but Seifer…_

"Do you have a good excuse?"

Exhaling, Squall shook his head. The duels should not have been his priority. "Not really."

"Given your latest injury and the short notice of the exam," Quistis said contemplatively, reading his expression, "I would be within my rights to prohibit you from taking the test."

"I have no intention of waiting another year, Instructor," Squall answered curtly.

"Well, we'd better get this rectified quickly, then." Quistis gazed over his shoulder to consult the wall clock. "Homeroom ends in an hour. I want you to meet me at the front gate after that. For now, go get yourself cleaned up…"


	5. Chapter 3

**Chapter III**

Selphie Tilmitt had only just arrived at Balamb, yet she was already hopelessly lost. As a transfer student from its sister, Trabia Garden, her instructor had granted her special leave to apply for SeeD. It was a rare honor for outsiders, and an opportunity she intended to grab with both fists. The prerequisite work had been a cinch, but meeting the cutoff for the field exam would be pointless if she was unable to find her way around the goddamn academy first.

She ran a hand through her bob of brown hair and let out a protracted sigh, staring blankly at the school directory on the atrium's ground floor. The large, rectangular monitor offered a bird's eye view of the main building and its satellite structures, but it may as well have been written in Shumi glyphs for all the sense it made.

The hall in which she stood was a vast expanse centered around a tower of apricot-colored marble, itself set on an island of tiered plinths and surrounded by a deep, floodlit lagoon. A principal walkway encircled the great column, with eight bridges branching off at regular intervals like the spokes of a wheel, leading to various wings of the Garden. Flanking the interior of the ornately-tiled path were benches and plants and a ring of fountains, the spouts a uniform arrangement of stone fastitocalons – fish native to the southerly Rinaul Coast.

Just ahead of the directory, a broad staircase climbed to the highest tier of the island. The platform doubled as an observation deck and a foyer for the elevators, whose shafts were embedded in the outer walls of the tower, rising to the skywalks on the levels above. Despite its immense scale, the intended effect of the atrium was to create a meditative place where students could wash away their worries in the calming ambience of the trickling water.

Had her mild concern not been rapidly evolving into an all-out anxiety attack, this idealistic notion may not have been lost on Selphie.

She bit her nails nervously, trying not to seem too out of place as her new classmates wandered about her, moving with purpose and direction. A little boy nearly knocked her over as he darted past. In his left hand was a stuffed doll of some red feline with a number thirteen stitched into it. He was soon followed by a throng of preteens busily chatting about their absent friend.

"Chester got taken by the Disciplinary Committee," said a young girl with pigtails. "He was caught cheating in Instructor Aki's class."

 _They_ knew what they were doing, where they were going. Selphie was suddenly afraid that perhaps her old roommate was right: Maybe she was too air-headed to be a SeeD; maybe she was not serious enough; maybe her clumsiness and innate talent for accidental mayhem made her a poor candidate for the illustrious unit.

Her mere week here had so far proven chaotic.

She had been late to Formation on the very first day, setting a wonderful precedent. To add to her stress, she had been unable to locate her dormitory until one of the staff had escorted her. Then, she had completely missed her extracurricular Arts classes the following afternoon, including a Journalism course she was really looking forward to. And now that she was finally starting to understand the flow of the schedule, she could not remember where her homeroom was.

She yearned for the comfortable layout of her old Garden, and her friends. Selphie was generally an outgoing person, but she had yet to connect with anybody here. There _was_ her assigned mentor, Instructor Trepe, but she seemed like the type who was nice to everybody.

 _Maybe it's a teacher thing…?_

She was roused from her reverie by the chime of the elevator bell. At the top of the steps, a set of doors parted, letting off some cadets she recognized. In that moment, her wits returned to her, and she remembered the classrooms were on the second floor. The realization was enough to jolt her into action, so she scampered up the stairs to catch the small lift.

"I'm gonna grab a bite to eat before the exam," Selphie overheard one of the boys say as she passed them. "It starts in a few hours, right?"

"Yeah," confirmed his mate. "I'd hate to be stuck revising. I swear I'd go blind reading off those monitors on a day like this!"

That did not bode well. Selphie felt a sinking sensation in her stomach, and she habitually rubbed the back of her neck as the elevator slowly began to rise. She glimpsed her worried expression in the glass reflection and resolved not to panic, instead straightening her navy uniform blazer and miniskirt. She lifted her chin and met her mirrored gaze, allowing the confidence to build.

As soon as the doors opened, however, her determination dissolved, and she went off like a pop gun, bursting out onto the second-floor skywalk in a furious sprint.

"I'm late, I'm late, I'm late!"

So consumed by dread was Selphie that she failed to notice the taller boy step in front of her. The collision was a ballet of physics, the other student stumbling backwards before correcting his balance, with Selphie bouncing off his sturdy frame and landing on the ground.

The boy peered down at her through curtains of dark hair. "Are you okay?"

Selphie scrambled to her feet and dusted herself off. She knew him from a handful of shared lessons: A quiet, brooding student with an intriguing aura. His handsome features had been tarnished by a recent injury, it appeared, and she forced her eyes to look everywhere except the bandaged wound across his nose. "Uh huh, I'm fine."

She had been hoping to run into somebody who was able to assist her, but not literally. Selphie's face went beet red and she bowed slightly in apology, in that instance noting he was not in uniform; instead, he was dressed in a stained white t-shirt, black pants and a cropped leather jacket with a collar of thick fur.

"Is homeroom over?" she asked frantically.

He shook his head. "Only SeeD applicants have been dismissed."

"That's me, too." Selphie groaned, cursing her luck. "This place is _so_ much bigger than my last Garden."

The boy responded with a noncommittal shrug. He seemed to be in a hurry, but Selphie wanted to make a good second impression, considering how terrible her first had been.

 _The last thing I need is a lousy reputation_ …

"Selphie Tilmitt, uh…" She hesitated, glancing to where his insignia would be had he not been wearing casual clothes. Finding no clue there, her eyes shifted inexplicably to the silver pendant hanging around his neck, expertly crafted in the head of a roaring lion. " _Sir_?"

He sighed. "Squall Leonhart. Now, if you'll excuse me–"

"Wait!" squeaked Selphie, desperate to salvage some level of rapport, or at least a tiny bit of help. She pondered how best to phrase her request without having to plead. Even to her, it sounded ridiculous. "Um, _Squall_? Is there any way you could, like, show me around?"

"There's a directory downstairs."

She thought about testing how far she could push Squall's patience before he snapped, but one look at his stony expression suggested she had already crossed that threshold.

"I'm sorry to bother you, sir. Can you at least tell me where I should go to wait until the exam?"

Squall rubbed his forehead, wincing as his fingers brushed over the bandage. She decided to be a bit more delicate; the poor guy was probably concussed. After a moment, he replied by motioning absently with his hand. "Library, cafeteria… whatever."

"Okay, the library sounds fun! I suppose I'll head there."

Squall's lips curled as she said this. Selphie guessed it was also his intended destination. Muttering under his breath, he stepped into the elevator. "You might as well come with me, then..."

The descent was a silent one. When they reached the ground floor of the atrium, Squall led her back down to the main concourse and turned left. According to her new companion, the library wing was accessed from the hall's southeast bridge – the first they would come to that crossed the waterway below – and was color-coded by a path of azure blue tiles. He walked at an unnaturally brisk pace, but Selphie was tenacious and matched him without complaint.

"So… what specialty are you?" she inquired in an attempt to make small talk.

"Saber," Squall generalized.

Selphie accepted his answer with a nod, but noticed the empty gunblade sheath around his waist. She opted to continue the conversation. "I'm an Indirect Magic Operative, Second Class."

Squall did not offer any sign of acknowledgment, let alone indicate he was close to being impressed. Selphie thought she saw a slight raising of his eyebrow, but it could easily have been a manifestation of irritation.

 _Who put the stick up this guy's ass?_

Garden divided its fighting forces into three categories: Sabers, Riflemen and Para-Mages, or "MGs" for short. The academy at Galbadia jealously hoarded their firearms, and thus Riflemen almost exclusively trained there. Sabers were defined as those who wielded a melee weapon, covering a variety of specializations. If Squall was a SeeD applicant, he was most likely a First Class Saber, but she couldn't be sure since he had not elaborated.

As for MGs, the term referred to anybody who primarily used para-magic. They were further subcategorized as Medics, Offensive MGs and Indirect Magic Operatives. While the first two groups were experts in either healing or combat, IMOs mastered unusual spells to protect allies or weaken enemies. It was a particularly difficult branch, but Selphie had an edge: Her _secret weapon_. Nothing else even came close to the defensive ward she could conjure. It gave her unique perspective on the often-unpopular support role.

 _I hope the exam lets me show just how useful I can be_ …

As they approached the bridge to the library wing, the two came across a member of the Garden Faculty in a heated argument with a junior student. Selphie had observed these strange men and women throughout the school, standing ever-vigilant in long, maroon-and-white gowns, their faces concealed by imposing yellow headdresses. Quick to scold or punish any misbehavior, they were intimidating in every sense of the word.

"No running in the atrium!" the Faculty member snarled, gripping the young boy's arm. Selphie had spotted the kid earlier, performing laps around the main walkway and energetically challenging passersby to matches of Triple Triad, an immensely popular card game. "Surely the Quad can accommodate your needs?"

"I'm sorry, sir, it's part of my training," the junior was insisting. "Instructor Kent says I have to run two miles every other day!"

"Your desire to meet expectations cannot come at the expense of school rules." The Garden Faculty released his hold, and the boy stumbled to the floor. "Now, get to the Quad! On the double!"

The young student did not need to be told twice, scurrying past the cadets in the direction of the western exit. Squall grumbled disapprovingly as he advanced, loud enough that the sentry overheard him. As the robed figure began to scowl at the dark-haired teenager, Squall gave him a formal salute – which Selphie hastily copied – to pre-empt any accusation of wrongdoing.

"Mr. Leonhart, the problem child." His voice had devolved from clinical and authoritarian to a derisory drawl. "Taking the SeeD field exam today, are we?"

"I need to complete the prerequisite with Instructor Trepe, sir," Squall replied. "I'm just waiting for homeroom to end."

"Off to the Training Center, then?"

"No, sir. The library."

Lowering his shielded face, the Faculty turned to address Selphie. "And you, Miss…?"

"Selphie. I mean, Miss Selphie Tilmitt, sir." She felt her sudden burst of confidence ebb away under whatever cold stare lurked behind his golden hood.

"Ah, yes, the transfer from Trabia," he remarked with a sneer, the gap in his cowl revealing a row of crooked teeth. "Well, get a move on. And no running in the halls!"

Passing around the Faculty member and onto the southeast bridge, Squall resumed his quick strides. It took Selphie a few seconds to find her legs and trot after him. The azure pathway glimmered in the natural sunlight breaching the overhead windows, its marble tiles echoing softly under their boots. Below, the calm waters of the lagoon gurgled and sang as they lapped gently against the walls.

"So… uh… you guys have a Training Center, right?" Selphie asked, imposing a new topic of conversation on her guide. "There isn't anything like that at Trabia. Best we had was a dummy range. Can you use, say, _bazookas_ there?"

"Huh?" Squall sputtered, nonplussed.

"You know, _big_ weapons. I'd love to blow up a real monster instead of those lousy mannequins." To illustrate her point, she simulated firing a rocket over her shoulder, then flung open her hands. "Boom!"

Squall's brows furrowed, but he elected not to humor her with an actual response. He grunted instead. "Whatever…"

Exiting the atrium, they came to a broad corridor that led to the library, lined on both sides by windows which provided expansive views of the surrounding grounds. To the west was the grand forecourt of Balamb Garden's entrance, and to the east, beyond the groves and student commons, was the enormous domed structure of the Training Center. The facility was as impressive as it was daunting, isolated from the other buildings as a safety precaution; hundreds of monsters were held in captivity there.

On reflection, the library itself was pretty easy to get to. As Selphie had come to expect, it was much larger than its counterpart at Trabia: Two dozen rows of mahogany bookshelves dominated the spacious, oblong room, their rich color complimenting the evergreen carpet. Tucked at the rear of the chamber was a designated reading area, complete with lamplit tables and communal study panels that were currently occupied by kids of all ages.

Squall marched over to a glass display case with a substantial stock of magazines. Browsing only for a few seconds, he grabbed an issue of something called _Weapons Monthly_ , and began palming through its pages. Selphie paused in the no-man's land between him and the reception desk, rocking back and forth on her tiptoes – a nervous habit – while she absorbed the scene. The relaxed atmosphere and smell of old books was heavenly, and she knew she would easily fall in love with this place.

But, somewhere in her heart, in the very fiber of her being, there was a subtle urge not to settle here for the afternoon. Abandoning her original plan, Selphie drew in a deep breath, then skipped spiritedly back to Squall.

"What you got there?" she enquired, leaning over the magazine for a closer inspection. The pages advertised a selection of gunblade models, ranging from the latest military standard to serrated blood-red sabers and advanced twin edges. Their functionality was all a bit of a mystery to her. "Thinking of getting an upgrade?"

"I need an improved trigger mechanism," Squall replied, flicking further into the periodical. " _Weapons Monthly_ is always the best place to start. Keeps you up to date on the latest tech. Even if you don't plan to buy it yourself, it's important to know what the enemy may be using."

Selphie nodded fervently in agreement; it was good advice.

As the senior cadet continued to review the content, she turned her attention to the display and the range it offered. Nestled among the combat publications was a handful of _Timber Maniacs_ , an oddly-named digest of amateur writing, compiled by a presumably-generous editor. On the lower shelves were the less desirable magazines such as _Pet Pals_ – which was relatively obsolete given animals were not allowed on campus – or _Occult Fan_. The latter was a tabloid filled with utterly nonsensical tales of the unexplained and bizarre.

 _A perfect way to relax before the exam_.

Picking up the first issue of _Occult Fan_ , Selphie strolled over to the counter. A young librarian soon appeared from the small office to assist her, clad in the same blazer-and-skirt ensemble as she was, and most likely performing the duties for extracurricular credits. As the girl fumbled with the digital database to check out the magazine, Selphie caught Squall making his way in her direction.

"You done too?" she posed, beaming up at him cheerfully. "Where to next?"

"Probably grab some lunch at the cafeteria," her escort replied. His brilliant blue eyes passed from Selphie's patient stance to her dubious choice of literature, then to the room's entrance. Scratching the back of his bandaged head, he sighed. "I guess you're going to follow me, right? No matter what I say?"

Selphie chuckled and patted his arm like a puppy. "You're catching on."


	6. Chapter 4

**Chapter IV**

Zell Dincht was waiting in line, anxiously tapping his foot as the queue in front of him depleted. There were no official lunch times, and students just ate at the cafeteria when they had a free chance. As such, it was difficult to gauge how busy the mess hall would be at any given hour. The meal choice was impressively varied, featuring everything from exotic flavored breads to spicy cockatrice breast. And yet none was more beloved than the renowned Balamb Garden hotdog platter. He could picture them now: Fat, succulent links of beef and pork, grilled to a fine tan and still bubbling from the grease, served on a toasted bun, dripping in ketchup and mustard.

As far as Zell was concerned, there existed no finer dining option in the entire Garden. Possibly the country.

But, that was _exactly_ the problem: These hotdogs were also the favorite of most of the student body. The kitchen staff only prepared a set amount each lunch, and they were usually gone by the time he arrived. Zell hoped against hope that today would be different; he really needed their juicy goodness to get him through the SeeD field exam.

Stomach growling, he approached the long, semi-circular counter. Even from a few steps away, he was unable to tell if the food trays behind the glass sneeze guard were empty. His heart began to pound. He could not bear to look at the sauce bottles or napkin dispensers. He had been fooled by their presence before.

Beyond the counter and its overhanging menus, radiant daylight flooded the open kitchen area, streaming through the windows that arced above the dining hall. Surly, middle-aged, apron-clad cooks loomed over steel stoves, glowering at the handful of volunteers who were laboring as part of their optional Culinary classes. It was one such cute, bright-eyed girl with brown hair that took Zell's order at the till. He stuffed his hands in his blazer pockets and cleared his throat in preparation.

"Hey, Kari," he began, his voice meek from the expectation of disappointment. "Don't suppose you have any hotdogs left?"

The cashier sighed, shaking her head. "Sorry, dude. The Disciplinary Committee bought the last six."

She pointed to a table at the far side of the seating deck. Zell immediately recognized the school's most popular bully, the blond-haired Seifer Almasy. He was toying with one of the ketchup-soaked buns, tossing chunks of it into various plant pots or at nearby groups of kids, making Zell's loss all the harder to accept. Beside him were his cohorts, the notorious Fujin and Raijin.

Fujin was a slim female with a bob of silvery hair. Her sky-blue jacket made her stand out in the sea of navy uniforms, but by far her most pronounced feature was the black eyepatch covering the left side of her face. Rumors persisted of the exact nature of the concealed injury – or if there even _was_ an injury – but faint traces of a nasty scar were visible around the edges. Raijin was her opposite: Tall where she was short, brawny where she was slight, the ebony to her ivory. He was the most uniquely dressed of the three, wearing a sleeveless denim waistcoat, baggy harem pants, and a necklace of orange beads; an homage to his foreign heritage.

The trio made a formidable team in combat training: Raijin's staff and Fujin's shuriken on the flanks, with Seifer front and center, his gunblade cleaving a path for them. It must have all seemed terribly romantic to Seifer in that twisted way of his. They were his only friends, but what they lacked in numbers, they made up for in unconditional loyalty. This was the feared Disciplinary Committee in its entirety.

And they were eating Zell's hotdogs.

"Every damn time!" he cursed, slamming his fist into his palm, the studded knuckles of his gloves causing him to grimace. "I'll just take a burger then, I guess."

Zell watched Kari scurry off to deliver his order to an older woman at the deli stall, who grumpily began to craft his second-rate lunch. He knew the lady by sight and had overheard staff refer to her as "Adelaide." Apparently, she had a son who had abandoned his classes at the academy and gone off to seek his fortune in the tranquil maritime town of Fisherman's Horizon. Perhaps if he failed to make it through today's exam, he could go pay the guy a visit.

SeeD was the ultimate goal, but Zell liked to diversify his interests. His desires stemmed mainly from his two great loves in life: Perfecting his physique and understanding machinery. The enthusiasm for bodybuilding he had allegedly inherited from his grandfather, or so his mother in Balamb Town claimed. Grandpa had been a soldier and so knew his way around a rifle or two. But he had also been known as the Armageddon Fist, one of the world's finest pugilists. Zell intended to honor his memory by becoming the next great master of martial arts, and had trained every day to make this dream a reality. He eschewed a weapon in favor of throwing himself knuckle-first at the enemy, studying every form of unarmed combat available.

As much as he hated to blow his own trumpet, after a decade of honing his skills, he was a force to be reckoned with.

However, his grandfather had passed down a very important lesson to him: A warrior must have a sound mind as well as a fit body. And so, Zell pushed himself to learn, but approached his education with the same reckless zeal as his fighting. The end result was him knowing just enough to be dangerous. His brain was brimming with a plethora of trivia, but he boasted little expertise, unless it related to technology. Along with taking elective courses in the motor pool, he was the kind of guy who would read technical manuals for fun.

Zell's thoughts were interrupted by a presence behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, he spotted one of his fellow cadets, Squall. Only a handful of people around the Garden were able to match that stony stare of the dark-haired Saber, and fewer still could wield a weapon as prestigious and unique as his Revolver.

Noting the absence of Squall's gunblade from its usual position on the boy's belt, Zell was suddenly very aware of the chipper girl jabbering away at his rear. An expression of utter disinterest was etched across his classmate's bandaged features, a stark contrast to the fiery passion emanating from his acquaintance. As they approached the counter, Zell realized she was describing in fond detail her recent undertakings in Trabia.

 _Ah… so this must be the transfer student…_

* * *

Squall's morning had been bad enough already without having to babysit the new arrival. On and on and on she had prattled about taking over the Festival Committee for its former organizer, Wimbly Donner – whoever that was –, using experience from her previous Garden. With only a half-hour to grab something to eat before he was to meet Quistis at the front gate, he was less than optimistic about having the patience to deal with _this_ one, too.

"Hey, Squall," Zell greeted him cheerfully. Turning to Selphie, a stupid grin appeared on his face, warping the shape of the tribal tattoo on his left cheek. "So, you finally got a girlfriend?"

Squall swerved to the side of the blond firecracker to place his order, ignoring the idiotic tease. As handy as Zell was in a skirmish or gadget dilemma, he was like an energetic puppy, and had zero filter between his brain and mouth. Selphie did not help matters.

"Oh, no, I'm just pestering him," she replied with a sly smile. "He's been a perfect gentleman so far."

"That doesn't sound like Leonhart." The cadet ran his fingers through his spiked hair, then extended a hand. "Uh, Zell Dincht."

She clasped it eagerly. "Selphie Tilmitt. You two know each other?"

"We share a few classes," Zell remarked, "and we're both taking the SeeD exam today."

For a moment, Squall considered deliberately flunking the prerequisite. _I really hope we're not assigned to the same squad_ …

He ordered a premade sandwich and a bottle of water, something light to help him through the afternoon ahead. It was never a good idea to be too full when going on a mission, but fighting on an empty stomach was even worse. Selphie, in some show of misplaced solidarity, requested the same of the girl behind the till.

Avoiding eye contact with Seifer and his cronies, Squall carried his lunch over to a vacant corner table. However, despite his best efforts to sit alone, he was joined by Selphie and Zell.

 _Why can't they just leave me in peace?_

"So, you nervous about the field test?" the boy asked with a mouthful of burger, oblivious to the ketchup that had splattered across his chin.

 _That's_ _a ridiculous_ _question. Of course I am!_

"Not really," Squall muttered.

"Cool as ice." Zell shook his head, chuckling to himself. "You better take care around this one, Selphie. He's a serious badass."

"I think he's sweet," Selphie jokingly disagreed. She leaned in to poke him under the ribs. "Strong, silent type, right?"

Squall gently pushed her hand away and resumed eating. The ham sandwich itself was not bad, but it was difficult to enjoy amid such nuisance. He tried to distract himself from the unwanted company by concentrating on the artistic, Shumi-crafted planters that were placed sporadically around the dining area, offering a bit of greenery.

Unsurprisingly, Zell failed to sense the mood.

"So, you've to go do the prerequisite with Instructor Trepe after this, huh? You'll finally get your own Guardian Force."

To his discredit, Squall had not thoroughly considered the significance of this act, but what Zell said was true enough. Guardian Forces – commonly abbreviated to "GFs" – were, in the simplest terms, sources of energy. They most often manifested as ancient mystical beings and had once been revered as deities thanks to their inherent supernatural abilities. It was possible for students to obtain and wield a degree of this power, generally by overcoming the entities in battle and assimilating them. The creature was thereafter bound to their consciousness as a Guardian Force – a process referred to as Junctioning – and provided a conduit through which to use para-magic, the channeling or manipulation of energy.

There were drawbacks, of course. Chief among them was the risk of weaker minds instead being possessed by the GF, and their bodies serving as a corporeal host. In addition, even with successful Junctioning, the scientific community cited ongoing research that linked the symbiotic integration of Guardian Forces to memory loss.

The studies had so far proven inconclusive.

Conversely, the benefits of Junctioning were immediate. Those who brandished this primordial power could instantly master any form of para-magic, exponentially accelerating their offensive or defensive prowess. Users were capable of exceptional feats of strength and vitality; constitution seemed to improve dramatically; injuries healed quicker and the immune system was bolstered. It was no exaggeration to suggest the use of Guardian Forces bred super-soldiers.

The risks involved, however, had led to GFs being exclusively utilized by SeeD.

To be fair, usage was kept to a strictly controlled environment. The Garden would confine Guardian Forces whose life energy was diminishing, and exploit them in the training of SeeD applicants. Squall had Junctioned a few times before with these weaker entities, but the results were not nearly as potent as the real thing, nor were the side-effects. In fact, the only noticeable negative symptoms he had experienced so far were mild headaches and the faint whisper of the fading spirits. It was a touch unnerving, but hardly life-altering.

As he continued to learn, preparing his mind to embrace and regulate the GF that would one day be his and his alone, the entities he trained with grew steadily stronger. And it became clear to him that there was nothing in this world quite like these creatures in their prime.

That was what Squall had to tame on the prerequisite.

"I suppose so," he eventually answered Zell, shrugging casually.

The blond maverick turned in his seat and patted Selphie on the shoulder. "How about you?"

"We don't use Guardian Forces at Trabia Garden, but I had to get one to take the exam, same as you guys. She's called Carbuncle… I think. After a while, you stop hearing them."

Squall was well aware that a GF could communicate with its host, yet it never ceased to amaze him they would share something as _intimate_ as an identity.

"I snagged this awesome thunderbird whose name I can't really pronounce," Zell gushed, his tongue stumbling over the syllables as he attempted it anyway. "Ku... Kweh... uh... Que... zal... cotl. No, wait… uh… Quetzalcoatl, that's it!"

"That puny thing?" a smug voice drifted from behind them.

Squall raised his eyes, a knot tightening in his stomach as he saw Seifer swaggering towards their table. Fujin and Raijin were in tow like the good little lap dogs they were, the former's face an impregnable mask of contempt to compliment the latter's cocky leer.

"What the hell do you know, Seifer?" Zell scoffed, flicking him a dismissive gesture.

 _A rather unimpressive retort._

"Well, for starters, if _you_ were able to bind with it," Seifer snorted, straightening the collar of his grey trenchcoat, "the GF can't have been too powerful. Mine, on the other hand–"

"You hear that, Squall?" Zell interrupted, glaring venomously at the leader of the Disciplinary Committee. "Seifer is saying he was only able to beat you this morning because of his powerful friend."

 _Okay, that one wasn't bad_ …

Seifer let this roll off his back, though his next words were dripping with insufferable arrogance. "Squall might be a crybaby, but he's a far more capable opponent than you. He can at least hold his own, which I _guess_ is progress. Do I see another of those godawful _Combat King_ magazines in your pocket?"

Zell crossed his legs with suspicious timing.

"Some o' us need all the help we can get, ya know?" Raijin chimed, his thick accent reverberating around the cafeteria. "I bet y'all just fight with ya fists 'cause ya scared to pick up a real weapon. I'll pack the power of my thunder against ya GF any day."

"Weakling!" Fujin added in aggressive monotone.

This was a hallmark of hers: She would generally express herself in just one or two words, and they were almost always antagonistic. It did, however, make her the one person at Balamb Garden who spoke less than Squall. Some believed she simply refused to waste words; others theorized she had brain damage from whatever injury had claimed her eye. Either way, she was a concise individual, a contrast to her verbose comrades.

Zell squared up to the posse, ready to settle the matter with his fists. Seifer could only laugh at the shadowboxer.

"I'll see you in the field later, chicken-wuss," Seifer goaded, calmly dropping a half-eaten hotdog down in front of Zell as he wandered off. "And, Squall, try not to get yourself killed at the Fire Cavern…"


	7. Chapter 5

**Chapter V**

Quistis collected her notes and stacked them neatly in her desk drawer as homeroom came to an end. By the angle at which the sunlight was piercing the windows at the rear of the lecture theatre, she knew midday would soon be upon them. The snowcapped Gaulg Mountains far to the north were a perfect backdrop, a golden line tracing their rolling crests beneath the cloudless sky. In her childhood, she had always loved this classroom, and it had been a privilege to teach here during the past semester.

Across the rows of study panels, the cadets were busy packing away their things. It had been a relatively relaxed lesson this morning, with half of her pupils off preparing for the exam, and the intricacies of the intercontinental railway not offering those present much to discuss.

As she locked the drawer, she spotted the approach of three of her most adoring students through the corner of her eye. The girls were senior members of a so-called fan club, the self-titled "Trepies", and prided themselves in knowing as much about her as possible. It was nice to be appreciated that way – albeit a touch cringeworthy, if truth be told – and the least she could do was humor them.

Quistis flashed the trio a warm smile. "What can I do for you, ladies?"

"So, Instructor," chirped Hannah, a petite blonde who was studying both literature and swordplay, "you said you're going on the field assignment today?"

"I did." She nodded to the doorway. "I actually have to go get changed now. I'm supervising a prerequisite with another cadet before the mission begins."

The second girl, Rose, was primarily attending Garden to hone her skills in drama. She seemed deaf to the haste in Quistis' tone, running a hand through her long, ginger hair. "That's so cool! Will you be taking your whip?"

Quistis sighed, sliding her spectacles back up the bridge of her nose. Her choice of weapon – a chained leather whip – was the subject of fascination among her female pupils and the lewd daydreams of their male peers. It had little to do with power or provocation; she simply had a natural flair for it. The coil itself was currently hidden in plain sight, stored inside a lightweight brown satchel atop her desk.

Leaning over, Quistis grabbed and unzipped the pouch, sliding it out for the Trepies to admire. It was an article that would only appeal to the most deranged of masochists and, even then, not for long. The whip had a thick steel handle, and at its core was the tentacle of an ochu, one of the nastier plants in the Training Center. The biting touch at its tip was a barbed razor she had styled herself, based on the tail of the legendary steed Sleipnir. The blade was barely noticeable while the chain was wound up, but it gave her weapon a nasty sting when it struck true.

"Wow!" gasped the third student, Ida, a plump, hardworking kid from the Timber region. Hesitant at first, she stepped forward for a closer inspection. "I've never noticed the detail before."

"It's designed for monster taming," Quistis explained, again adding a hint of urgency to her voice.

"Why?" Hannah frowned.

 _Don't discourage their curiosity_ , she reminded herself. _Don't discourage their learning._

"One of my first jobs after becoming a SeeD was tending to the Training Center. I became a specialist with this weapon to help manage the creatures there."

"And that's where you developed your… _gift_?" asked Rose, choosing her words delicately.

The "gift" to which she was referring was rather unique among the members of the Garden. Quistis had been a child prodigy, blessed with the superhuman ability of instantly understanding how things worked. She was not the strongest from a physical perspective, but this allowed her to mimic an opponent, using their own techniques against them.

At the Training Center, staff were expected to come into constant contact with monsters, so comprehending the minute details of their nature was tantamount to survival. With Quistis' talent for imitation, she was especially adept, though nothing had prepared her for the true manifestation of her gift the night she had faced the rampant archeosaur.

 _Let's not dwell on it here_ … _my so-called "Blue Magic"._

"I'm sorry, girls." She glanced at her watch and held up an apologetic hand, grabbing her satchel from the desk with the other. "I really must get going now."

"Squall is so lucky," Ida whined as Quistis scurried off towards the second-floor corridor. "Private tutoring from Instructor Trepe… What's so special about _him_?"

* * *

Squall strolled down the forecourt towards the main gate, grateful to once more feel the bulk of his gunblade at his hip. As a Saber, he would most likely have had a pretty lousy prerequisite without it, and just holding the weight of the trigger mechanism in his palm renewed his confidence somewhat. Just as Dr. Kadowaki had informed him, he found Revolver on his bed in the dormitory. It still bore minor scratches and a spattering of dust from his hilltop bout with Seifer, but was otherwise unscathed.

Running his gloved fingers over the winged lion carving on the weapon's hilt, he had holstered the blade and made hastily for the entrance to Balamb Garden.

Squall had wandered this broad boulevard countless times since his arrival twelve years ago. Easily the best part of fifty feet in width, the concourse snaked southbound beneath artistic stone archways, fringed on both sides by hedges and cascading artificial waterfalls. The scent of blooming flowers and crisp, fresh air emphasized the scene, accentuated further by the echo of tumbling water. Beyond the tree lines and lawns to the east was the rotunda of the library, and to the west the contemporary façade of the infirmary. Like each of the Garden's annexes, they lay within a short hike of the main building, accessible by covered walkways supported by colonnades.

While he could not recall much from his earliest days, Squall had not lost the sense of wonder he felt when he had first laid eyes on the academy. The exterior of the central construct had a bulbous, conical shape – not unlike a gargantuan seashell – with a metallic indigo sheen. Rising sequentially from the ringed atrium at its base, the successive floors were segmented and distinct, narrowing to form ever smaller rings and culminating in the dome above the headmaster's office at its pinnacle. It was a marvel of modern architecture, built around the husk of a derelict Centran shelter, and a living monument to the proud history of the ancient civilization.

The Centra had been a highly exploratory people, and their scattered remnants had become the foundations of two great nations. In the West was the Holy Dollet Empire, a warlike society who viewed their new realm as a means of conquest, and from their legacy came the powerful provinces of Dollet, Galbadia and Timber. Over the centuries, the ties to each other were severed, but their fiery spirits shone as bright as ever. And with no land left to claim, they began to fight amongst themselves.

To the east was the city-state of Esthar, established by the enlightened peoples of Centra. Seeking to take their homeland's technological prowess to its apex, they constructed a self-sustaining metropolis along the shores of a vast salt lake. Freshwater was scarce, supplies were limited, and the soil was barren and near-useless for farming. Yet, somehow, Esthar had thrived there for hundreds of years.

As impressive as these fledgling cultures were, none stood as mighty as Centra itself once had. Tales were still told of its unrivaled beauty, of tree-lined roads between its mighty stone citadels. The vibrant crimson of the marble architecture was said to have resembled red-clothed sentinels, passing judgment upon those who entered their gates. A fierce love of science had inspired the Centra to create devices which had performed feats that seemed impossible, even magical.

A good example of this was the golden halo hovering above the complex. It was suspended between four colossal spires – located at each of the cardinal directions – which somehow created an anti-gravity field using ancient technology. According to his history lecturers, the phenomenon had not been altered since the days of the Centra Empire. The school's planners had apparently given the halo's magnificent metalwork a new paint job as an homage to its cultural heritage, but Squall doubted that any apparatus still functioning after thousands of years – the science behind which continued to baffle the planet's greatest minds – would require much refurbishment.

 _Just another stupid children's story_ …

The forecourt was unusually busy for this hour of the day. Most of the loiterers were SeeD applicants, waiting to be called in for the exam briefing. Some were killing time by indulging in some Triple Triad, a card game popular among casual collectors and seasoned players alike. Each card had a unique illustration of a monster or notable historical figure, obscured slightly by a quartet of numbers in the upper right corner: The key to the game.

Squall had a small deck of around twenty cards – almost everybody on campus did – but he rarely played. He had not even come by them through typical challenges, in all honesty. A departing graduate had gifted him their cracked and peeling bundle, seemingly because nobody else was around. It had hardly come with a ringing endorsement, either; the owner admitted they were unwanted hand-me-downs from his older brother. Squall thus possessed a thrice-rejected stack, containing two buels, a half-chewed geezard and a King Mog someone had drawn a mustache onto.

Perhaps he would one day pass them on to another lonely cadet. Or maybe he would just throw them out.

Zell, by contrast, had well over a hundred cards and could often be found zooming around the quads on his illegal T-Board, searching for unsuspecting prey. Squall had also heard rumors of a secret group of students – supposedly led by a few instructors – who were among the most elite players in the world. In his opinion, it simply indicated they were not applying themselves enough to their education.

By the time Squall arrived at the pedestrian entrance to the grounds of Balamb Garden, the sun had peaked in the brilliantly azure sky. The large wrought iron gateway was watched over by twin gargoyle sentinels, perched on either side atop the perimeter wall. Beyond was the access road, disappearing into a horizon of rolling grasslands, the ever-verdant Alcaud Plains.

 _Where is she?_

While Quistis remained elusive, another of Squall's classmates, Nida, was seated on a bench nearby. He was an athletic boy with short, brown hair and heavy brows, the buttons of his uniform shirt undone to keep cool. Squall had always thought him to be competent but unremarkable, though he did excel in navigation.

Catching his eye, Nida hailed him with a casual wave. Squall begrudgingly obliged.

"You fancy a game?" the boy asked politely, nodding to the decorative Triple Triad mat he had unfolded by his backpack. It was a three-by-three grid, the underlying inkwork not dissimilar to the interlocked crescents of the Garden insignia.

 _I can think of nothing I would rather do less._

"I'm meeting Instructor Trepe."

"Lucky man," Nida commented.

 _Great… another_ _Trepie_ _._

"Whatever…"

"I was sorry to hear about what Seifer did to you." He pointed to the bandage across Squall's nose. "Does it hurt?"

 _Stings like a bitch_ … _as does the shame_.

"I've had worse."

"Well, I hope you guys straighten things out before the field exam. There's a rumor we're being sent to Dollet."

"I wouldn't know," Squall mumbled dismissively.

There had been a prerecorded news segment from the previous day which mentioned a military exercise in the region, but Squall had only heard bits and pieces.

 _It's not my concern yet, anyway._

Leaving Nida to his cards, Squall took up a spot by the gate, the midday heat scorching the black leather of his jacket while he waited. Another ten minutes passed before he spotted Quistis scurrying down the concourse towards him, her footsteps echoing against the concrete arches. The jaunty way her hips swayed was unmistakable, but he did not recognize the instructor without her SeeD attire. Nevertheless, her casual outfit maintained the same degree of elegance.

Quistis had donned an orange-peach skirt and a matching sleeveless zip-up top. From afar, it could have been misidentified as a ballgown – a curious choice for field duty – but the illusion was ruined somewhat by the keyhole around her navel. Completing the look were burgundy arm warmers and the sort of knee-high boots that would likely have Nida drooling, as well as a belt that hung loosely around her waist.

 _She's brought her whip with her…_

"Ready to go?" Quistis called as she approached, tucking her blonde bangs behind her ears.

Squall simply nodded, touching a hand to the hilt of his own weapon. The prerequisite was just a trial run for the SeeD exam, but he would still need to be on alert the moment they departed the relative safety of the Garden. The plains were hardly teeming with monsters, but given the morning he had had, he was not about to take any risks.

 _Today is too important_ …

"We'd better get a move on," Quistis directed, marching right past him and out of the gate. "We don't have much time..."


	8. Chapter 6

**Chapter VI**

The road from the main gate carved a path south through the roaming prairies of the Alcaud Plains. It was a simple four-lane transit route between the Garden and Balamb Town, located on the coast several dozen miles away. Aside from the humble gas station, diner and motel that proudly marked the center of the island, the journey was rather unexciting. Even less so on foot.

For as long as he could remember, Squall's entire world had been Balamb Island, a meager speck in the middle of the ocean. If he had his way, "ordinary" and "boring" would be its chief descriptors. The gentle gradients of the countryside were a watercolor painting of scattered flowers, melting from white to gold to magenta, all of them swaying in the breeze. Upwind of the salty ocean air were the Gaulg Mountains, whose chilly peaks stretched across the northern rim of Balamb.

The trick was to travel light, carrying only the essentials needed to survive. The utility belt around Squall's waist bore the weight of a full canteen and a few first-aid items, not to mention Revolver sheathed at his hip. Quistis had a similar flask hooked onto her whip's leather case. She did not trouble herself with the supplies, though; to an experienced user of para-magic, mending wounds was merely a matter of concentration.

The teens walked against the traffic at the edge of the highway, the occasional vehicle giving a courtesy honk as it passed. Squall recognized one of the frosted-white refrigerated vans bringing in this week's supply of fish for the cafeteria staff. Stenciled letters on the rear doors spelled out "Sea's Bounty Fishmongers".

After a half-hour of hiking, they turned southeast onto a dusty trail, well-worn from a decade's worth of trampling boots. The dirt track would lead them through White Koa Forest, which grew dense and vibrant along the Garden's eastern perimeter. There were other, smaller groves and woods that dotted the island, but this was by far the most expansive. Here, the soil was especially fertile, and the undergrowth threatened to reclaim the footpath at every turn. The namesake koa trees towered high above them, their ivory trunks twisting like cobwebs, with dark green leaves blotting out the daylight. While the air was alive with the buzzing of the indigenous bite bugs, a soft background chittering betrayed the presence of a caterchipillar colony, busily gnawing at the trees' bark.

A biology instructor had once tried to sell the young students on the wondrously diverse flora and fauna. They had enthusiastically declared the insect problem an _entomological paradise_.

Then, as now, the cadet could not help but scoff at it.

"Trouble, Squall?" Quistis asked, cocking her head in confusion and causing a few strands of her blonde hair to cascade across her cheeks.

"Nothing," he grunted, shaking off his recollection.

The trek through White Koa lasted little more than twenty minutes thanks to the pair's quick pace. Even so, the experience felt far longer to Squall than the open plains had. He inhaled a lungful of fresh air as they emerged from the tree line, allowing himself a moment to survey the scenery.

They had come to the crown of a shallow dale, formed amid the foothills of the southernmost Gaulg Ranges. From there, a rocky track wound down into the gaping maw of their destination, the Fire Cavern. All students learned about this subterranean magma lake early in their education, and it was a common spot for geography field trips. Fed by a network of lava tubes, it had been alive with volcanic activity for centuries, and was the only place of its kind on the archipelago.

These channels of molten rock ran beneath the seabed, connecting the continents. They were known to surface at mysterious locations, either triggering or being drawn by natural phenomena. The energy here was rather unpredictable. Some believed it was of a spiritual sort, using terms such as "ley lines"; others considered it to be a tangible physics issue, most probably geomagnetism.

One thing was indisputable for the Fire Cavern and sites like it, however: It was a breeding ground for Guardian Forces.

The earth beneath Squall's feet quaked rhythmically as he and Quistis approached the cave entrance, a sensation generated by the igneous blood flow. Two Garden Faculty members stood sentry in the shadow of the cliffside, clad in the usual attire of maroon robes and yellow headdresses. They showed no sign of discomfort, but it made Squall wonder how they could tolerate the heat. A wrought iron gate was ajar behind them, the padlock dangling loosely off the latch. While the framework was solidly embedded within the rock, the rusting bars would do little to prevent anything substantial escaping. The intent, though, was to deter unauthorized access; no-one was permitted into the labyrinth after sunset.

"Rank and identification," the figure on the right challenged, his face customarily hidden.

Squall stood to attention, locking his heels and placing his arms stiffly at his sides. He raised his right hand once into a salute before responding. "SeeD Program Cadet Squall Leonhart. Student number 41269."

Quistis followed his example and assumed the same posture. "Major Trepe, instructor number 14. I'm his backup."

"Cutting it a bit fine on the prerequisite, aren't we?" remarked the guard on the left.

His colleague ignored the jibe and began to recite an official, well-rehearsed statement. "You are here to obtain a Guardian Force. A SeeD member must support. Do not enter unless you are fully prepared for what lies ahead."

Squall nodded, sending a bead of sweat trickling from his brow down over his wound. In his mind, he saw the blade of Seifer's Hyperion crashing towards him. He hesitated, but refused to allow that smug bastard to derail his hopes of graduating today. "I'm ready, sir."

 _Let's just get on with it…_

The Faculty staff parted unhurriedly, granting them passage beyond. Quistis gave a friendly wave of thanks, but there was no indication that either noticed or cared. Crossing the threshold, the path immediately began to decline, a wall of stifling heat overcoming Squall. His clothes were already sticking to his skin, so he tied his jacket around his waist and took a sip from his canteen.

"We can't stay in here too long," Quistis advised, slipping off her spectacles to wipe the steam from the lenses.

 _Clearly_.

No sooner had he gulped down the water, his throat was drying again. It made him ponder why anyone would elect to battle in this insufferable place outside of training requirements. Clusters of red bats hung from the ceiling of the cramped tunnel, chirping angrily at the intruders as they descended in the direction of the fiery lake. With each step towards the bubbling pools, the smell of decaying flesh somehow started to overpower the sulfur, accompanied by the distant shrieks of the cavern's hostile inhabitants.

"Ley lines tend to attract monsters," Quistis commented, sensing the cadet's unspoken question.

Squall was steeling himself for the coming trial, yet noticed his instructor seemed perfectly at ease. Despite only being a year older than he was, Quistis was a veteran of these prerequisites. Experience was one thing, he recognized, but striding alongside her pupil so casually was quite separate. This was assuredly another fringe perk of Junctioning, utilizing the GF's ability to regulate her stamina and body temperature.

"Keep moving, Squall," she encouraged him. "It's your job to challenge and assimilate the Guardian Force. All I can do is assist you in combat."

 _I know_ …

After several minutes they came to a bend in the passage, around which was a slender antechamber consumed by a thin haze of acrid smoke. The hollow opened onto the vast expanse of lava pools, each white hot beneath a burning scum of deep red magma. A web of natural stone walkways crisscrossed the treacherous terrain, branching sporadically towards nothing in particular. Layer upon layer of molten rock had risen and cooled along their flanks, creeping up like rows of grotesque centurions.

It was exactly as it had appeared in his school textbooks, only infinitely less hospitable.

 _I just have to keep moving! The epicenter isn't far._

Heeding Quistis' gesture for him to proceed, Squall began carefully along the central causeway, a scorched trail which became uncomfortably narrower with each step. The cacophony of screams continued to grow louder, yet still seemed distant, almost as if they were an echo in his mind. Navigating the paths, he had to squint through the sweat and ash that clung to his face, plotting their route ahead to avoid dead ends. Progressing steadily, Squall caught sight of charred bones littering the floor, but none were identifiable as human the way Seifer had described.

 _More of his lies_ …

A year had passed since his training rival had obtained a GF here. He had pranced around the school that day as if he owned the place, arrogantly regaling his exploits in the Fire Cavern to anyone stupid enough to be in his proximity. Raijin and Fujin had crooned over their heroic comrade, never shy in reminding Squall that he was not ready for the prerequisite.

They shut up for a while when Seifer failed his first SeeD exam.

Nevertheless, the blond swordsman had revealed enough detail about the trial for Squall to take note. In the middle of the lake was an isolated island where the ley line energy field was at its most fragile. The academically minded referred to it as the epicenter, and the spiritual ones called it a _portal to the_ _Void_ _._ Here, there seemed to be an interdimensional overlap between the real world and the domain of the Guardian Forces, and from this rift would come _someone_ or _something_.

Any size. Any shape. A master of any elemental force.

Negotiating a particularly unstable stretch, the duo at last came to a lean causeway. Combined with the pulsating temperature, the limited space created a sense of claustrophobia, the slithering magma flow encroaching ever further at the edges. It was as if the cavern was trying to swallow them whole. Squall slowed as they neared the portal, yielding momentarily to an intense throbbing in his head.

 _Voices…? Are those…_ GFs _?_

"You know, boys _often_ choke on this test when I come with them," Quistis teased, misreading his hesitation. "I guess my charm makes them nervous."

Despite the mounting pressure on his brain, Squall managed to cast her an incredulous glance. _Is she serious right now?_

"I was joking!" Quistis immediately defended the quip. "I'm trying to keep you relaxed."

 _I don't need humor, just a way to stop these things from drilling a hole in my skull._

About fifty feet away, at the end of the causeway, was a formation of rocks that thrust from the bubbling surface like a monstrous claw. Each finger reached towards the obscured ceiling of the cavern, gnarled and serrated. The entirety of the warped stone was swathed in crimson, shimmering as the scorching fumes caressed its grooves.

Drained as he was, Squall decided to tackle the final stretch at a jog; pushing his limits was the best way he knew how to handle a situation. Dithering would only increase the duration of his pain. Quistis matched his pace with ease. The throbbing began to crescendo into a frenzy of internal screams, wails of long-lost spirits seeking a new host. As the pair approached the end of the line, Squall again wondered how anybody could survive this.

A circle of uneven rock had been forged within the formation, and at its core was a glowing pit filled with neither fire nor ice nor earth. Energy in its rawest state emanated from the fracture, as hypnotic as it was terrifying. The ground quaked suddenly, and for a moment Squall felt they might be consumed by the churning furnace around them, leaving nothing but blackened husks for others to find thousands of years from now.

"It's true what they say," Quistis called over the rumbling, reclaiming his attention. "You and Seifer are in a league of your own. Both of you possess such impressive determination and potential. Step forward when you're ready."

 _Confirmation, then, that Seifer_ did _obtain his Guardian Force here_. _I can't fail_ …

Squall looked down at his hands, and to the ring he always wore. He had to be strong now, else whatever presence awaited him would certainly seize his mind. The raised carving of the lion – the one he had named Griever – roared in his heart. Slowly, the young Saber drew his gunblade, shaking with anticipation as the embers in his chest yearned to outshine the flames of the cave. Griever was there as well, etched into the flat of the steel, his features alive in the fiery reflections.

He would not cower one second longer. _I can't fail_ …

As Squall advanced, there was an explosion in the pit, converging like a shaft of blinding light. From it emerged a beast to stand before him, not a lion, but a muscular, humanoid demon. The creature had burnt red skin and the face of a wild animal, with two enormous, curving horns extending from a mane of thick, scarlet fur.

No words were exchanged verbally, nor was a gestured greeting of any sort offered. Within Squall's thoughts, however, a single booming voice became pronounced amid the incessant screaming.

" _I am Ifrit_ ," it said, " _one of the eternal entities. The pulse of life created me, and to the planet I shall return. If you seek my power, you must first prove your worth_."

The brute had a familiar profile, one that Squall knew from an old bestiary of Centran mythology, and the childhood nightmares that had followed his first sight of it. Ifrit was a jinn, an ancient being of wandering flame. They rarely manifested in a full, corporeal state, but when they did, it was to better serve their master, Hyne, the god who birthed all magic. The mere presence of this unholy thing before Squall, his appearance akin to the crude artistic renderings Squall had feared as a kid, made him feel utterly powerless.

The jinn was no legend; his nightmare was real.

Squall had come to test his competence, and in doing so he had unwittingly called forth a being that was perfectly tuned to fight in the Fire Cavern. Rather than an entity which might be more easily tamed in the harsh environment, the fiend would only grow stronger.

Ifrit lunged at Squall, dragging razor-sharp claws across his arm, tearing his shirt and splattering blood down his side. The young swordsman growled in agony, barely managing to raise Revolver to block the GF's follow-up swipe. Gritting his teeth, he forced the beast back, shifting his weight to deliver a blow of his own. Ifrit was unfazed, though, effortlessly parrying the weapon with his talons.

Hastily formulating an attack strategy, Squall began to circle around the jinn, careful to keep Ifrit between himself and the pit. The heat was suffocating, and his vision was blurred by matted hair and a cascade of perspiration soaking through his bandages. The fiery menace moved again, alarmingly quick and agile for a creature his size, empowered by his elemental advantage. Squall dropped a shoulder, ducking below his opponent's thrust, and piercing its abdomen in the same motion.

" _Aaaargh!_ "

Ifrit's thrashing arm caught the cadet on the back, launching him towards the center of the ringed arena. He landed hard, his gunblade skittering away from him and coming to a stop mere inches from the edge of the pit. Scrambling to his weapon, he glanced up to see the ferocious entity looming over him, fangs borne, ready to retaliate.

As the fiend took a step forward, however, a miniature targeted blizzard bombarded him. The spell's ice-cold blast not only momentarily paralyzed the demon, but doused Squall's sweat-drenched body with much-needed relief. Steam hissed excruciatingly on Ifrit's swarthy skin, his eyes wide and maddened as he turned towards Quistis. With a casual retort, she cracked her whip off his face, the barb drawing darkened blood. The beast screeched in anger, reacting fast enough to catch the lash on its second strike and yanking the instructor to the ground.

" _So, you have Shiva?"_ Ifrit mocked _. "Even_ her _power will not save you."_

If Quistis could not neutralize this monstrosity, her student was a sitting duck. He was outmatched, hopelessly at the mercy of an entity older and wiser than he would ever be.

 _I can't even beat Seifer in a simple duel. How the hell will I defeat_ this _thing?_

Taking twisted pleasure in seeing Quistis on her knees, Ifrit tossed aside the whip, setting his gaze again on the trainee prey. He hunched his shoulders like a battering ram, and blindly charged Squall, hungry to disable him for good. And then, with a silver flash, Squall's gunblade was up once more, barely deflecting the brute's onslaught. If Squall fell now, Ifrit would be the one to rise in this teenage body. His very soul was at risk.

 _The others did it. There must be a way!_

"Squall, focus!" Quistis yelled, her anxious tone sending pinpricks down his spine.

His damned pride had made him seek out a challenge too great. He was not SeeD material; he was barely cadet material. Even Quistis with her own Guardian Force was unable to save him now. The blade was beginning to buckle under the pressure, and even the heavy, reinforced trigger mechanism rattled like a death knell. Squall had two choices: Succumb to fear and surrender himself entirely, or become the lion.

 _You are stronger than him!_

Summoning every ounce of skill, Squall drove his weapon upward in one last push, hurling Ifrit off him. Desperate and berserk, he unleashed a rapid foray of hacks and slashes. Each time he pulled the trigger, a shockwave ripped his enemy's flesh asunder until it seemed his strikes were shredding the fabric of time itself, freezing the beast in place and allowing Squall to deliver one devastating blow after another. Trapping the barbaric spirit against the treacherous stone boundary of the epicenter, Squall scraped his blade along the volcanic rock and swung wildly to carve a gaping wound on the jinn's neck. As he found his mark, Ifrit disappeared in a shower of glittering particles, slowly dissipating amid the haze of sulfur fumes.

 _Did I do it?_

For a second, Squall simply stood there, unable to believe Ifrit was indeed defeated. And then his instinct proved just right: It was not over yet. Accompanied by the deafening rumble of collapsing stone, the screaming returned with a vengeance. There was howling deep inside him, like a caged animal screeching for its freedom. The Guardian Force was still vying for sovereignty, wrestling to overpower Squall's mind, but there was no way in. Having somehow proven himself the superior being on the battlefield, he refused to lose in the arena of the self.

Images flashed through his consciousness, disparate and chaotic. Some memories were clearly Squall's: The duel with Seifer, his first day at Garden, and the girl in the infirmary. Others, however, were far beyond the cadet's comprehension: An ancient city being drowned in a sea of monsters; a massive pillar of pure crystal; a castle on a floating isle in the timeless night.

 _There's only one me, and only one now,_ Squall thought, forcing himself back to the present.

He felt the burning stone beneath him, smelled the decay and sulfur. Squall was in the Fire Cavern, on Balamb Island. That was the only reality he acknowledged. The images faded away, and the sounds were replaced by naught but the young man's breathing.

"Squall, is… is it still you?" Quistis asked, crouching by his side as he tried to sit up.

Somewhere in his consciousness, he sensed Ifrit concede their Junctioning, retreating with a parting shot. " _You win this round, boy_."

"Whatever…" muttered Squall.

"I'll accept that," the instructor chuckled, a smile creeping over her lips. "How do you feel?"

 _Powerful_ , he thought, _immensely_ _powerful_.

The heat no longer bothered him, and the exhaustion that had gripped him seconds before was swiftly evaporating. In that instant, he was capable of anything. He could scale the heavens, swim the oceans, challenge whole armies single-handedly. There were no more limits for his potential, no unreachable horizons.

"It's difficult to describe," Squall mumbled eventually, staring absently at the lion on his ring.

Quistis nodded, checking her watch. "It takes some getting used to. Just try not to become bloodthirsty and you should be okay. For now, though, we'd better get back to the Garden or we'll miss the exam briefing."


	9. Chapter 7

**Chapter VII**

Ifrit was nothing like the weakened Guardian Force specimens Squall had trained with. He recalled the first-tier spirits, soon to pass from existence and easily overcome, even by the feeble-minded. The effects of coupling with those beings was barely noticeable: A faint boost in power, a slight improvement in senses, scant resistance and fading murmurs of an ancient life. After that, they were assessed with "loaner" GFs, specially bred for compatibility and ease of use, whose chief purpose was to develop the cadets' aptitude with para-magic. The consequences of this Junctioning being artificially produced were much of the same as those of a perishing entity, though the challenges in maintaining control were more pronounced. Once the users had a handle on the functionality of these couplings, the synthetic GFs would be exorcised. However, to truly become a SeeD member, students were required to conquer and assimilate an untamed GF in its prime.

And there was nothing in the world like it.

Squall was able to sprint the entire way back to the Garden without the faintest sign of fatigue. Through the woodland trails of White Koa Forest and across the rolling pastures of the Alcaud Plains he ran, surefooted and charged with vitality. The return trip was uneventful, not a monster in sight. This brought a degree of disappointment, though Squall was conscious that his newfound hints of bloodlust were undoubtedly Ifrit's influence. Nevertheless, he knew that anything to stand against his blade would fall.

 _Is this how Seifer always feels? Supremely powerful, nigh unstoppable? Did I ever_ _have_ _a chance in those duels…?_

The presence of Ifrit – as deep within the cadet's mind as he had settled – was no small matter. It was simultaneously a distant and foreboding howl, and a manipulative whisper in Squall's ear. The thoughts the jinn incited were dark and violent; it was hard to be sure he was drawing from the GF's strength rather than simply being a puppet of Ifrit's destructive desires.

This was the real test of Junctioning: A constant battle of wills.

"Don't get lost trying to dwell on their nature," Quistis had explained, observing her pupil's mental clashes as they traversed the grasslands. "His voice will subside in time, so long as you stay focused."

"He's loud."

"They all are at first," she reassured him. "But remember it is a tool to be used, not guidance to be heeded. If you consider your GF a separate entity – no matter how true that may be – you put yourself at risk of surrendering control."

Squall sensed a surge of anger that was not his. Ifrit would not be ignored so easily, it seemed. He tried his best to subdue the demon's protests by distracting himself and thinking ahead to the field exam, but it was to no avail. Mastering the GF was going to be tricky.

 _Whatever the trial, I'll meet it head on_ …

They arrived at the Garden only a few hours after leaving, yet there was a clear and palpable change in the atmosphere. Several SeeD candidates had already gathered in the atrium, some pacing nervously, others performing habitual weapon checks. Classes typically concluded late in the afternoon, but not today. As most instructors were tasked with invigilating the exam in a live combat scenario, lessons had been postponed. Instead, students would most likely be milling about the Quad, cafeteria or Training Center. While some of those cliques were assuredly assembling in their usual hangout, many had been attracted to the spectacle of the imminent departure.

"You'd better go get changed," Quistis told Squall as they entered the main hall, motioning towards his stained t-shirt and jacket. "Briefing starts in half an hour. And… uh… maybe take a shower."

 _Whatever_ …

Abandoning her to the giggles of a party of Trepies huddled by the school directory, he weaved between the lingering mob and made his way around the central walkway towards its northernmost exit. He recalled witnessing a briefing very much like the one that was to follow years earlier, waiting eagerly in the shadow of a large plant pot, back when the role of SeeD still held a certain mysticism for him. His young imagination had run riot as Headmaster Cid delivered his speech to the candidates, pondering all sorts of adventures that might one day await him in the wide world.

Nowadays, Squall could no longer define exactly what it was he was hoping to discover out there. As the seasons came and went, he stopped following the crowds while they cheered on the new crop of SeeDs. It had always seemed to be a social obligation, so he gave up participating. Something had changed about his ambitions, though that was maybe just a side-effect of getting older. Squall had somewhere along the line realized with a pang of self-loathing that he was on a fast track to becoming a jaded adult. Ever the soldier, he had tried to console himself with the one reason that unfailingly returned to him: Duty.

This was what he was _supposed_ to do. Whether it was what he _wanted_ to do was a different question.

" _So much power, and yet you are not content,"_ mocked Ifrit _. "How tragic it must be."_

 _It's a little late for second thoughts now…_

Peering up, he watched the blinking lights of an elevator descending the atrium's central pillar. He had done so countless times before, yet now the pallid apricot-and-orange colors of the tower and the detail of the glass lift shaft were emphasized tenfold. The internal wires and mechanisms hummed acutely, and he could calculate the number of people inside based on the capsule's shift in deceleration. This was a whole next level of awareness.

 _Have all my senses been heightened…?_

On the inner side of the ringed footpath, water from the fountains bubbled around the fastitocalon statues, the soothing ambience neutralizing the building clamor in the hall. As he walked, Squall realized it provided a base white noise, something that he could actively tune in and out of. These enhanced skills would take a bit of getting used to, but he was ready to start pushing the limits of his own capabilities.

Ahead, by the bridge to the parking garage, he caught sight of two uniformed cadets anxiously discussing the exam. A blonde MG with a tight ponytail was raising her hand, miming the casting of a fireball. The other student, an even younger male, was scratching his scruff of facial hair.

"I don't get it," he was moaning. "I can't figure para-magic out."

"You just have to concentrate," his friend insisted, slowing her demonstration further. "It's easy if you let the GF do most of the work."

"But… aren't we supposed to keep control of our thoughts?"

"We are, but you're sort of, like, sharing a consciousness," the girl explained, albeit inaccurately.

Squall did not bother to correct her; the clarification she had given was vague enough to satisfy a beginner. To allege anyone was "sharing a consciousness" with a Guardian Force was decidedly wrong. The phrase implied symbiosis, which was the desired effect of Junctioning. Yet, based on the current experience hosting one in his head, Ifrit felt more like a parasite, leeching at his psyche.

" _And what have you done for me, exactly?"_ the jinn protested _. "You summon me, enslave me and use my power."_

The GF had a point, but Squall wouldn't admit it.

" _You were told to ignore me, because humans fear power as much as they crave it. What would happen if you sought to understand those urges instead of suppressing them?"_

Squall entertained the notion that there might be some wisdom in what he was being told. But actions spoke louder than words, and the new initiate decided to play it by the book for now.

The dormitories were another standalone wing of the Balamb Garden complex and could be accessed from the atrium via a stretch of adjoining corridors that ran up a grassy incline. Squall had long favored the patch as particularly decent for taking naps in the spring. Given that there were better-tended areas of the grounds, especially around the Quad, his classmates only really came by this way when headed to their rooms. It was a convenient spot to get away from the endless chatter of _people_.

The building itself was a pale limestone behemoth where functionality trumped aesthetics. Circular in design with an open-air courtyard at its heart, it was only two stories tall, but the dorms were packed tightly enough to accommodate the entire student body. A single hallway looped around both floors and could be entered at set intervals from the lawn, with rooms flanking either side. The outer band held the standard shared quarters, while the inner ring was reserved for staff members and SeeDs who used single-occupant apartments. In total, the halls could house around eight hundred or so.

From the foyer, Squall trudged down the corridor to the southwest wing and climbed the stairwell to the second floor. Unit 253 was only a few doors along from there. By the state of the place, his roommate, Pontus, had apparently not yet returned from lessons; he was probably in the crowd at the atrium.

The layout of the dorm was rather utilitarian in style. It boasted a simple communal area with a table for meals, a couple of stools, a small kitchenette and a shower-and-toilet combo. Two individual bedrooms connected directly to the living space, divided by a thin wall bearing a digital clock. A hideous plastic fern was also tucked in the corner, its sole purpose to create the illusion of décor. The plant had been failing at that for years now. Even with its rudimentary furnishings, the lounge was a mess, its table covered in music magazines and Pontus' half-eaten breakfast.

Ignoring the clutter, Squall wandered into his clean, orderly compartment and immediately felt a wave of relief. This was his space, his sanctuary. He closed the sliding panel door and took in his surroundings as he undressed.

The bed was, in reality, not much more than a cot with sheets, stuffed against the wall, its headboard directly below the window. Above his mattress was a foot-high cavity that served as a bookshelf, the dark pinewood a stark contrast to the generic white around it. A few textbooks were stacked neatly along it, as well as a journal he never wrote in, and a tattered paperback copy of _Zefer,_ an old, epic tale that had been made into a popular film around twenty years ago.

There was little in the way of personal storage space, save for a nightstand with steel drawers and a narrow closet at the end of the bed. Squall hardly used the latter, instead habitually draping his cadet shirts and pants or his leather jacket from the window's curtain rail. At the minute, Revolver's heavy, rectangular case was leaning against the unit, emblazoned with the silver head of Griever to match Squall's talismanic pendant and ring.

" _Uniforms are so stuffy,_ "complained a voice in his mind.

It was his, but not his. He had never disliked the Garden attire before, though admittedly his weapon and the subsequent necessity to move as freely as possible required him to wear it a bit loosely in combat. Shaking off Ifrit's gripes, he slipped his navy-blue blazer from its hanger and selected the least dirty pants to accompany it. He found a grey t-shirt in one of the drawers and set the full outfit on the sheets, ready for when he had finished his shower.

Pausing, Squall momentarily considered taking off his necklace and leaving it behind, but quickly decided against it. Griever had proven to be something of a good luck charm so far today, and he would need all the luck he could get for what was to come.

Tossing his sweaty clothes onto the carpet, he grabbed a towel and made for the bathroom. However, as he turned, he caught sight of himself in the closet mirror. Between the bangs of his wavy, brown hair, the bandage on his forehead was peeling away. Stained as it was from seeping blood and the smoky air of the Fire Cavern, it dawned on Squall in that second that the pain had subsided.

Carefully stripping away the gauze, he was dumbstruck as he realized the deep laceration that had seriously marred his features only this morning was now but a slender, pink scar. It already seemed old and well-healed, prominent though the diagonal slash was across his face. Tracing his fingers down the line, it felt odd but not sore to the touch.

 _Damn… that's why Seifer's injury didn't look so bad!_

Squall had studied the effects of GFs and knew they were able to bolster one's constitution and vitality. Though rarer, they were also capable of miraculous healing feats, accelerating recovery or even acting as life support for the user if their status was critical. Nonetheless, he had never expected anything like this. With every passing moment, he was crossing new thresholds of knowledge, and the benefits were staring right back at him.

Somewhere in his consciousness, the voice spoke again, its tone a suspicious blend of comradery and sarcasm. " _You're welcome_ …"


	10. Chapter 8

**Chapter VIII**

The gathered crowd was even denser on the return journey, with students huddling as close to the walkway's main intersection as they could without impeding the briefing area. Indistinct chatter buzzed around the atrium, all of it excited. Dozens of onlookers were perched on the stone walls that bordered the fountain pools, but only for as long as it took one of the patrolling Faculty members to correct them. The maroon robes and yellow headwear stood out in the sea of navy-blue uniforms like geezards in a snowstorm.

 _Always watching. Always scowling._

Squall had heard rumors regarding the ludicrous and seemingly impractical attire of the Garden Faculty, but he held little interest for the subject. They were in charge, and that was all he needed to know. It was not as if his obedience and discipline had won him favor with the arbiters of school policy, yet he had never been one to waste time complaining about things he could not change.

 _Keep your head down, and you'll do fine._

" _Amazing how easily mortals mistake indolence for patience,"_ Ifrit taunted Squall as he pushed through the throng of junior classmates.

Remembering Quistis' words from the forest, Squall tried to ignore his personal devil. That was easier said than done given their Junctioning meant the Guardian Force could now see – and flawlessly articulate – his deepest fears and personal regrets. Nobody had ever told him about this particular habit of the GFs; most spoke highly of their protectors. It made Squall wonder if it was a unique personality quirk of Ifrit's, if it was something others simply were not troubled by, or if normal SeeDs harbored less self-doubt than he did.

Trying to center himself, Squall instead focused on the white noise: The ebb and flow of water and words. _Maybe everyone has insecurities they want to keep hidden…_

The briefing area was situated in front of the directory, a broad section of the concourse where the main entrance, the steps to the elevators and the central walkway converged. It was an open-plan foyer of sorts, partitioned only by an elaborate planter bearing the dagger-leafed Raha Fern, and bound on both sides by the drop into the lagoon below.

Adjacent to the directory, the orange and cobalt linework on the marble floor seemed to serve as an unspoken barrier for the candidates. A few had already fallen into formation while others were taking these last moments to welcome encouragement from their friends. Zell and Selphie were among them, and he noted Nida being pulled into an embrace by Ami, a Timber-born art student.

 _Isn't Nida also from Timber?_

Squall shrugged off the musing as quickly as it came to him. The subject of hometowns was an uncomfortable one for an orphan. Balamb Garden was the only home he had ever truly known, and that suited him well enough. Underlying loyalties did not compliment the mercenary life.

Quistis stood before the crowd, awaiting the arrival of Headmaster Cid and Colonel Xu. She was clad once more in her black SeeD uniform, its scarlet tie and gold-lined lapel pristine as usual. Her demeanor had shifted back from playful mentor to esteemed teacher; it was just as cheerful, but with a definite disciplinarian sheen.

Squall saluted her respectfully. "Instructor."

Quistis returned the gesture, the hint of a sly smile on her lips as she noticed his healed scar. "Mr. Leonhart."

"Mister" or "Miss" were the proper titles for all students, just as "Sir" or "Ma'am" were the honorifics for staff members. Still, it felt awkward to be addressed so formally after sharing such a life-altering experience less than two hours earlier.

 _Then again, I'm not the first cadet she's taken on the prerequisite_ …

"I'll be naming the teams before the headmaster's address," Quistis told him, straightening her spectacles and peering out over the rabble. "Quite the audience, huh?"

Squall was unsure how to respond, so chose to say nothing. It was no different to any other exam. And besides, small talk was not his forte.

 _What's the point in conversing if it serves no purpose?_

"You're on Squad B," she continued, double-checking the clipboard in her hand. "Which means you'll be with Mr. Dincht. A rather lively fellow."

 _Zell. Wonderful._

Squall rubbed his forehead and sighed. He had been troubled by the possibility since meeting the hothead martial artist in the cafeteria. "He's just loud."

In his peripheral vision, he could see the blond faux-hawked teen jabbing the air with the explosive energy of a five-year-old on a sugar rush. The sleeves of Zell's jacket were unbuttoned and rolled up to his elbows, his combat gloves tight around his fists. He ended the display of physical prowess with a backflip, earning himself a polite smattering of applause from the mob, and a heavy groan from Squall.

Behind Zell, above the lofty arch of the main entrance, was the Balamb Garden insignia. Its body was a bright blue cross on a ring that resembled the halo suspended over the school. Twin crescents intertwined at its center: Descending ivory on the right, skyward obsidian mirroring on the left. The message was an inclusive and philosophical one, celebrating the diversity of its students' talents and backgrounds.

SeeD, however, had adopted its own variation of the emblem, teaching its trainees to use both the light and dark qualities of one's self when needed. They were at once elite soldiers and refined diplomats. Nothing was purely evil, nor was it purely good; conflict was a spectrum, a balancing act. That was the theory, at any rate.

Watching the fighter bouncing towards him, a stupid grin spread across his tattooed face, Squall wondered how the ambassadorial half applied to his exam teammate.

"So, we get to tackle this together!" Zell beamed, extending a restless hand. "Isn't that cool?"

 _You are a liability right now._

Squall left him hanging, but Zell took it in his stride. "Still pissed about Seifer, huh?"

 _Among other things_.

"It was just training."

"Bet ya Seifer doesn't think so," Zell countered, throwing another few practice punches. "He's a pain in the ass. Don't worry about him."

"Excuse me," Quistis interjected, all business as she leaned between the pair. "I suggest you mind your tongue. Mr. Almasy is your squad leader."

Squall knew his instructor did not care for the authoritarian bully, either, but the chain of command took priority. She could not deviate from that creed, especially in front of the students.

Right on cue, a commotion erupted amid the nearest cluster of spectators, a handful of them grumbling as they were forcefully parted. The trenchcoat-clad swordsman sauntered into the middle of the assembled candidates, tailed by the burly Raijin and slender Fujin. He wore a conceited expression, clearly reveling in Squall's dissatisfaction.

Seifer was one of the best-performing cadets in the SeeD Program, but it was also a testament to how many times he had failed to attain his goal. Most hopefuls who did not graduate after their second attempt would have long since opted to transfer to Galbadia. And the other, less military-minded fields of study in Balamb Garden were littered with SeeD dropouts.

 _Is he tenacious or just stubborn?_

"Greetings, kiddies," Seifer sneered, his cerulean eyes flashing. Raijin let out a sycophantic belly laugh, the orange beads around his neck jingling musically as he did. Fujin glared at her large comrade, delivering a swift kick to his shin to quieten him.

 _The entire Disciplinary Committee is here. This just gets better and better._

"Captain or not," Quistis reminded him, "you are expected to show courtesy."

 _I don't need you to fight my battles._

"Of course, Instructor," Seifer chimed dismissively.

She ignored his contempt. "I wish you good luck in the exam."

The blond Saber raised his palm in the air like he was swatting away the empty words. "Save your wishes for a student who needs them."

"Okay then," Quistis chuckled, folding her arms. She bent over as if to address a petulant child, exaggerating her movement. "Good luck, _Seifer_."

He scowled and clicked his fingers at Fujin. "Add Trepe to the list."

 _The list?_

If Quistis was at all bothered by the juvenile threat, she showed no sign of it. Squall was more concerned about being assigned to a squad with his archrival.

 _It doesn't matter, Squall,_ he tried to reassure himself. _Just do your duty._

"Is everyone here?" came an older voice, echoing over the atrium and bringing the background din to a sudden hush. Squall was grateful for the distraction, casting his gaze towards the elevators at the base of the central tower.

Headmaster Cid, accompanied by Xu, was slowly walking down the staircase, surveying the gathering with interest. Dark-haired and strong-jawed, he may once have been something of a warrior, but his stout physique had softened with age and the stresses of the job. His maroon sweater and brown slacks created a loving paternal appearance which comforted his pupils, as did the kind eyes behind his full-moon glasses.

Nowadays, Cid Kramer was an academic by nature, and his role in SeeD was more executive than strategist. He may have founded the organization, but believed it was best run internally. To that end, Colonel Xu was officially the leader of SeeD, though she worked closely with the headmaster. The command structure held no generals by design and, technically speaking, these titles were communicative shorthand. Their positions were numeric, Xu's being the most senior at Rank 30.

The colonel's features were firm and uncompromising, framed by immaculately straight, brunette locks. She was small in stature but wielded a goliath presence. Her medal- and ribbon-decorated uniform was usually a visual aide-mémoire of her battle-hardened competence.

Today she wore no honors.

Where the borders between participants and observers had been fluid before, the headmaster's arrival had triggered a definitive separating of the two. The cadets quickly assumed formation and divided evenly into a quartet of three-man squads. Selphie snuck into a row ahead of them, her curled bob, jaunty stance and deadly nunchaku unmistakable.

 _So, she's in Squad A, then._

The supporting SeeDs stood at the rear of the company, save Xu and Quistis, who flanked Cid. As the highest-ranking member of SeeD, the prestigious position at the headmaster's side was old news for Xu. Quistis, on the other hand, was both the youngest and least experienced instructor, so Squall was uncertain what she had done to merit this spot.

Then again, three of her wards were taking the exam.

Courteous as he was, when it came time to talk shop, Headmaster Cid was not known to mince his words. He could be oppressively honest in discussing SeeD matters. It was as if he did not fully support their own operations – an attribute Squall had always found curious.

 _What else should I expect of a teacher? The military stuff must complicate things_ …

Cid scanned the room like a hawk, settling on the candidates as if trying to memorize all twelve faces. "It's been a while. How are we all doing today?"

The question was rhetorical, though there were a few mumbled responses from the crowd. The old man waited patiently for silence to resume.

 _Ever the accommodating leader._

"I'll keep the formalities to a minimum, as you will be properly briefed en route to Dollet," Cid proceeded, adjusting his specs as he addressed Squall and his peers directly. "The exam will involve a dozen cadets, designated Squads A through D. You will be entering a real battlefield. This is not a simulation; it is live combat. You cannot afford to stray, slack off, or lose focus. If there are any among you not prepared to risk everything for this assignment, step away at this time."

A customary pause followed, but tradition held and none fell out of line. Unlike their fellow students, who had chosen academic or artistic pursuits, SeeD candidates spent every day of their lives preparing for moments like this. The shame of backing out now would be unforgiveable.

"Very good," Cid acknowledged their bravery with an appreciative smile. "Victory and defeat, life and death, honor and disgrace: These things go hand in hand. All conflict ends for us one way or the other. How about it? Are you up for the challenge? Should you fail to accomplish your task, the nine SeeDs accompanying you will complete the mission. They always do. One less thing to worry about, yes?"

Nervous chuckling filtered through the student audience, but it did little to dispel the tension. Among Cid's quirks were his injections of humor at inappropriate times. Squall was uncertain if this was proof of his soldier past or just a side-effect of his age.

"The elite mercenary force! The pride of Balamb Garden! Learn from them, obey their commands, remember your training, and you may come home safely. Prove yourself worthy of becoming a member of SeeD."

Concluding his send-off, Cid turned to Xu and clasped her shoulder, whispering something in her ear. It was brief, possibly nothing more than offering last-minute advice or wishing her luck. For her part, Xu took charge immediately, descending the final few steps to stand before the formation, and lifting a hand to her temple in salute. She was in control, and the field exam was officially underway.

"Dismissed!"


	11. Chapter 9

**Chapter IX**

Anybody who had ever spent more than a few minutes in the company of Zell Dincht would sooner or later find the topic turning to Balamb Garden's motor pool. He was among the handful who took elective courses in the dimly lit parking garage. While most were pursuing a technical degree, and would later return to their hometowns as mechanics, Zell was only a hobbyist. Squall could understand the pragmatism of studying gadgetry, but it was hard to appreciate when the young gearhead was spouting off specifications with the zeal of a desperate salesman.

The underground lot had a sickeningly sweet musk of oil, petrol and hints of various other automotive fluids. There was space enough on the ground floor for the fleet of two dozen Garden vehicles as well as a couple of priority spots for the Faculty. Among the latter was a modest brown sedan sporting a dented fender, a cyan convertible with cream seats and a cherry-red coupe that looked very out of place.

As Squall was wondering which staff member would require – or indeed could afford – such a lavish automobile, Quistis caught his attention.

"Squad B!" she called, her arm hovering above the hood of their assigned transport. "Over here!"

The van was a compact, well-aged piece. Metallic yellow dominated its exterior, with an emerald green trim around the bumpers and matching hubcaps. Its fishlike body sloped towards the rear, made up of sleek curves crafted to cut down on wind resistance and creating an informal homage to the island state.

The registration number was painted on the side: 3GDN047. One of Zell's unbidden lectures came rushing back.

"'GDN' is an abbreviation of 'Garden'," he had elaborated against Squall's will. "That's how you know it's owned by one of the schools. The '3' is Balamb's identification digit; Galbadia uses '1', and Trabia's is '2'. Then there's a unique code number at the end. Neat, huh?"

As they entered, it became apparent that all the effort had been allocated to making the vans safe to drive and pretty to look at, leaving concerns such as comfort by the wayside. The light blue leather seats – six in total – provided the only color in an otherwise drab, grey cabin, arranged in two rows that faced each other. Some idealistic designer had implemented a touch of art on the panel containing the emergency supplies, but it did little to counter the sterility.

A monitor and keypad on the dividing wall allowed communication between the driver and passengers, and Squall could see their chauffeur reading what looked like a _Timber Maniacs_ while he waited for them to board. The rear compartment was well lit, which almost made up for the fact that this suffocating box had no windows. The seats were cramped but, as it was, the quartet would fit relatively comfortably.

Squall was last to enter, begrudgingly dropping in beside Zell, opposite Seifer. The captain had spread out to deliberately take up as much room as possible, leering at his fellow cadets as if to welcome a confrontation. Quistis had noted this, but said nothing, herself adopting a dignified and tight posture. Squall ignored the bait, leaning forward and resting his chin in his palm.

With a slight rumble, the engine started, and seconds later they were moving. The driver wasted no time in screeching out of the parking deck and gunning it up the ramp, taking a sharp left as the road veered southwest outside the Garden's front gate. They met the turn at enough speed that the tires squealed on the asphalt.

 _I get that we're in a hurry, but jeez._

"Yo, Squall, lemme see your gunblade, will ya?" Zell insisted with the air of a kid wanting to peek at his birthday presents.

"No," Squall replied simply. He was not in the habit of drawing his weapon outside of battle, and certainly was not about to let this oaf grope at it.

" _Please_? Come on, they're so cool."

"No."

"I've always wanted to check out their trigger mechanism up close," he clarified, as if such a desire might sway Squall's opinion. "Don't be a jerk!"

Zell's affinity for intricate moving parts did not improve his odds at all. "I said 'no'."

"Why ya bein' so selfish?" the shadowboxer tutted in derision. Sighing, he rose to his feet and began to throw a few practice jabs, dancing on his toes. It was possible this was to combat either claustrophobia or motion sickness, but Squall suspected he was too excited or frustrated to remain still.

 _Just like a kid._

"Sit down, chicken-wuss," Seifer barked irritably.

Zell glared at his comrade, intending to mouth off, but swiftly remembered this was an official mission. He complied meekly but, as covertly as he could, chose to make an obscene gesture. Squall was sure Quistis spotted it but, again, she did not fuss.

"I understand there's a lot of tension here," she remarked instead, "but you'll need to learn to function as a team if you're going to succeed today. That includes you, Seifer."

"Yeah, alright," the blond Saber accepted curtly. "Teamwork means staying out of my way. It's a Squad B rule. Don't forget it."

Quistis rolled her eyes but gave no other sign of her disapproval. If this was part of the test, Seifer had begun poorly. Squall glanced up at his opposite's facial scar, the mere sight of it causing his own wound to throb. He was uncertain if this was just a psychological reaction or if Ifrit was playing tricks on him. Either way, he still could not fathom why the two had been assigned to the same team.

The powers that be _had_ to know they were bitter rivals. Which meant this was no accident.

Seifer was a talented swordsman, to be sure, but he was also an insufferable ass who did not belong in a position of authority. Try as he might, Squall found no rationale for the circumstances. If he was supposed to acknowledge some inherent quality of Seifer's outside of his grade, he was not prepared to do that.

Frankly, Squall would rather have been back in the care of Dr. Kadowaki than pandering to the squad leader's twisted whims.

A sudden flush of fatigue hit him at the thought, his first downturn in energy since acquiring his GF. He imagined returning to the soft, warm infirmary bed, the gentle breeze filtering through the window. He supposed the day's events were starting to catch up with him.

 _And I still have a war to fight. Perfect._

It was then that a vague memory came to the forefront of his mind, summoned by this uncomfortably pleasant daydream: The woman he had heard in the ward with him. He recalled the fleeting shadow of her ivory skirt, an azure blouse, the floral perfume. It had not dawned on him to ask earlier, but now it was troubling him.

"Instructor… did you notice a girl leaving the infirmary when you came to get me?"

Quistis had been in a pensive state, so the impromptu question confused her, especially as it came from her least talkative ward. "Uh, a girl? Not really. Why? She a friend of yours?"

 _A friend? Of mine?_

Squall shook his head. "It's nothing."

A sour, sardonic laugh erupted from Seifer, and he brought his hand to his forehead in derision. "This is great. The most important mission of my life and I'm stuck with a chicken-wuss and a guy who's just hit puberty..."

* * *

The convoy tore down the four-lane highway towards Balamb Town, located on the southwest Raha Cape. The trip could be made in a day by foot, but they had cleared it in under an hour. Even lacking windows, Squall was familiar enough with the environment to gauge their progress. The patches of trees thinned as the road approached the headlands and the route instead became lined by palms. Cars would be heading to the Garden, or perhaps staking out a decent fishing spot. At this time of year, when summer was just setting in, adventurous youths might be camping or out hiking public stretches of the Gaulg Range.

However, anything too far from civilization attracted hostile wildlife, and few dared to risk it.

The four lanes converged into one as they neared the gate of Balamb Town. It was an archaic port settlement that had been largely unchanged for generations, with narrow cobblestone paths unsuitable for automobiles. Most streets were pedestrianized and the Rent-a-Car dealership on the outskirts of town was typically the closest vehicles got to the harbor, but Garden enjoyed special privileges.

The architecture here seemed to draw inspiration from the clusters of rocks and shells that one might find on a beach, only on a larger scale, and fortified with masonry and paint. Constructed mainly with sea-resistant granite, it featured sweeping domed rooftops, slender ingresses and stairwells. There was a serene duality to it, blending the natural beauty of the ocean and the manufactured paradise of man.

Their ride began to vibrate as it crossed the boundary from the tarmac highway to the cobbled thoroughfare. They would be passing the car rental, soon followed by the old junk shop, a regular haunt of Squall's. Gunblades were tricky to maintain, and the proprietor, a foreign blacksmith by the name of Genji, knew his stuff. The best thing about him was that he took every order without instigating conversation.

 _A perfect service_.

The horn suddenly sounded, and Squall envisioned the denizens being hurried out of the way, cursing the SeeD fleet under their breaths. The populace of Balamb Town had not changed much over the years, and a vocal minority had called for expansion to encourage immigration. But tradition died hard on the island, and the mayor was yet to convince the conservative inhabitants to trade their rich environment for potential economic growth. The fishing and tourism industries were stable – not to mention the benefits of the port's proximity to the prestigious Garden – so it made little sense for the people of Balamb to gamble their heritage.

Besides, thanks to the intercontinental railway, the town was hardly isolated; the undersea tunnel had trains travelling to and from Timber daily.

"I wonder if Ma has dinner on…" Zell mused aloud, patting his stomach. He was clearly still disappointed to have missed out on the lunchtime hotdogs.

A wide turn indicated they were commencing down the gradual, winding decline towards the dock, a lazy S-bend that passed the renowned Balamb Hotel. The guesthouse was a cylindrical three-story building, its exterior a striking sky-blue with porthole-like windows that created the illusion of gazing into an aquarium. Above the entranceway was a giant ship's helm, accompanied by sculptures of the two sea creatures for which the historic settlement was known: On the right was the Badamb, a round and unpleasant-tasting blowfish. Though its poison was not fatal, poor preparation of its meat could leave consumers feeling nauseous for a while. The left side, however, was the carving of a local species of tuna with dazzling turquoise scales called the Balamb Fish, hunted in their thousands in generations past. It was from this unassuming coastal resident that the nation got its name.

The uniform rattling of the wheels finally faded, and the cadence of steel planks indicated they were crossing the bridge to the harbor proper. The van came to an abrupt halt, and the hatch at the rear was opened moments later by one of Quistis' fellow SeeD instructors. An aroma of saltwater and local cuisine enveloped them – some meaty seafood concoction with a hint of lime – and made Zell clutch his stomach again. It reminded Squall of how meager _his_ last meal had been, but he shook it off. He would have plenty of time to eat after the exam.

 _If I'm still alive_ …

He had been keeping his emotions in check until now, burying his insecurities as far down as Ifrit would allow. Embracing apathy and suppressing doubt were among his main strengths; they were necessary for him to stay focused in battle. Nevertheless, the sight of his comrades gearing up and hastening towards the main wharf instantly thrust the reality of his situation upon him. It was sobering.

For all the serious warnings the headmaster had issued, these missions were strictly monitored by more experienced warriors. SeeDs were deployed to every corner of the planet, but SeeD _candidates_ were only ever utilized as reinforcements under test conditions. Their specific assignments generally ranged from guard duty to scouting to neutralizing monster threats.

But, this would still be a combat zone, and things often went awry in war. It was very possible Squall could die that day. It was possible they all could.

 _Get a_ _grip_ _!_

Afternoon was fading fast, and the island tide was receding towards an overcast horizon. Despite the building clouds, though, traces of a swollen moon loomed like a specter in the sky. Squall noticed a few older men heading home from the marina, abandoning their fishing spot for the day. They ambled slowly, burdened by tackle boxes and poles, and were complaining bitterly about the stream of cadets scaring away their catch.

At the southern end of the harbor, beyond the storehouses, was an ornate domed pavilion. It had undoubtedly been beautiful when first erected, but ages of being battered by the elements had stained its pearlescent stone an unappealing ochre. On the eastern flank was a row of dry docks that had been purchased by Headmaster Cid to accommodate their transport vessels. Technically, this entire section of the port was Garden property.

 _But,_ _try telling that to the locals._

Two SeeD assault boats were still berthed at the south pier, with five more anchored a short distance out to sea. It indicated the other squads had boarded with military efficiency and were already set to depart. There was a general racket among the crew and attending Garden staff, shouting orders and directing candidates, primarily to the effect of "move your asses".

Their _Bismarck_ class vessels had a strange shape to them, with a whale-like appearance but a slim hull, and a length of around forty feet for rapid, deft movement. At the rear was an elevated bubble dome for the helmsman, and a mounted gunner position on the crown at its front. The streamlined nose of the bow arced downward to form a door that opened like the gaping maw of a sandworm, splitting three ways to offer the widest possible clearance. This was dubbed "the breach", used to grant passengers immediate access to land in the event of a speedy mooring.

While in port, however, the squad was to enter via an access hatch on the starboard side.

"That'll be our ride," Squall remarked in a matter-of-fact tone, stepping out from behind the van to join the others.

"Ain't no turnin' back now," Seifer declared confidently, stretching his legs and giving a sidelong glance to his dark-haired rival. "Are you scared?"

 _Of course not._

" _Yes, you are_ ," Ifrit taunted him.

Seifer chuckled in response to Squall's silence.

"Squad B!" came an angry yell from the wharf. By the gangplank of the nearest craft, a pair of Faculty members gestured frustratedly, the draped sleeves of their robes dancing in the gusts. "You're late! Get aboard now!"

With a snort, Seifer turned to Squall and pointed a finger in his face before storming off. "You better not disappoint me!"

 _What the hell does_ that _mean?_

The team hurried after their leader towards the south pier. It was the least maintained area of the harbor, but the only section of the quay large enough for the assault boats. Massive spools lay discarded along the walls of the storehouses, remnants of when the first undersea HD Cable line had been established between Timber and Balamb. Worn barrels were filled to the brim with nuts and bolts, the top layer of which had been rusted to the point of utter futility.

Squall took initiative and steadily approached the gangplank while the Faculty ushered them hastily aboard, their voices drowned out by a cacophony of shrieking his head as he passed through the doorway, he slapped the metal frame. To account for its lightweight properties, the ship's armor was not terribly sound against anything stronger than rifle fire, and the cramped design meant the maximum occupancy was twelve. However, each team had their own transport for a tactical – if slightly morbid – purpose: It gave the enemy more targets. Four for Squads A, B, C and D, and three for the SeeD support.

The organization's insignia was displayed proudly at the stern of the vessels, as was their individual of the seven _Bismarcks_ was named after a figure from Centran mythology, Squall knew. _Tonberry,_ which carried Squad A, earned its moniker from the lantern-bearing creatures believed to be the souls of departed sailors, specifically those which never found their way to the afterlife. Not to be outdone, his own craft bore the title _Abadon_ , a shepherd of the damned.

Squall frowned. _That bodes well…_


	12. Chapter 10

**Chapter X**

Xu stood at the fore of the _Abadon_ , waiting for Squad B to embark. A quick glance at her reflection in the briefing monitor confirmed her side swept fringe was sitting perfectly and her uniform showed no creases. Appearance was everything, and the commander of the operation should present themselves with the same degree of perfection they expected of their wards. The gold trim around her right cuff probably could have used a touch-up, but she was otherwise satisfied.

The interior of the assault boat was roomy enough, but when the gunner hatch, engine compartment and the holding area by the breach were factored in, it felt nearly as cramped as the Garden transport vehicles. The vessel's hull could not have been more than fifteen feet in breadth, its walls and floor a striking shade of emerald green, decorated by pipes and electrical cables. A low map table occupied the center of the space – creating two aisles between the seats – across which was spread a navigational printout of Dollet's coastline.

Behind Xu was a large drop-down briefing screen which currently displayed the SeeD insignia, partially blocking the door to the bridge. While the pilot was raised above the rest in the stern's bubble dome, a small team consisting of a co-pilot, radio operator and navigator worked below deck. It was a suffocating arrangement, and she did not envy the crew.

Tucking her arms at her spine, she rotated her shoulders in turn, and let out a soft sigh of relief as the right one finally cracked. The joint had been bothering her for hours, probably since this morning's assessment at the headmaster's office.

 _It should be just another exam…_

Yet, there was something that seemed off about this assignment. Xu absently tapped her lips with her index finger, deliberating the intelligence for the hundredth time. She had spent the day poring over the details as the situation evolved, but her misgivings had not been allayed. On paper, it was an ideal scenario to test SeeD candidates.

 _In practice, there is no such thing as an ideal scenario._

She could hear the bridge crew chatting on the other side of the door; it sounded as if launch preparations were almost complete. They were a lively bunch, joking as much as they worked, but the young colonel trusted them with her life. Nevertheless, their loud voices were giving her a bit of a headache.

"Steve?" the pilot called jovially. "Are you plotting our course or looking at cat photos down there?"

"An outrageous accusation, Al!" retorted the co-pilot, his words coated in a thick Trabian accent. "I'm simply trying to get Moga drunk on duty."

"If only," grumbled the navigator. "I could use a Wendigo Bloodcocktail right now. We're sailing into a goddamned warzone."

The off-hand comment struck a chord with Xu.

 _That's exactly what it_ _is:_ _The opening volley of a longer conflict._

Her thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of the squad. Cadet Leonhart entered first, followed by Cadet Dincht, Quistis and eventually Seifer. Xu forced herself not to grimace at the familiar sight of the two-time failure. Headmaster Cid was convinced there was salvageable potential in the boy, but while the aging administrator's attention was divided between the school and SeeD, Xu's was more focused. As the senior officer of the Program, the members and trainees were _her_ responsibility.

For years, she had watched hundreds of young men and women accept the challenge but miss their opportunity. More important still, she had witnessed good, qualified applicants fail through no fault of their own. These were the candidates who had given their all, done everything right, yet had not stood out.

SeeDs were not taught to be robots; they were taught to be the difference.

And then there was Seifer, the mouthy little twerp who mistook arrogance for confidence and authority for leadership. Xu's integrity required her to treat the bully like he had a shot, but nothing short of a miraculous transformation would earn him satisfactory marks.

 _He_ _can't_ _even be bothered to take that damn trenchcoat off._

The hatch closed behind the boarding party, and the noise from the harbor died away, leaving only the humming of the engine and Seifer's exasperated sighs.

"Instructor Trepe," Xu formally greeted her friend for the benefit of the cadets, lowering her voice as the blonde beauty approached her. As always, that SeeD uniform of hers was immaculate, neatly hugging her figure. "You nervous?"

"I'll be fine." Quistis smiled, though her eyes betrayed a hint of apprehension. "These are the members of Squad B."

Xu inspected the three, particularly Squall and Zell.

The dark-haired gunblade specialist saluted Xu. "Ma'am."

"Hiya!" Mr. Dincht beamed cheerily, managing a clumsy wave. Xu elected to overlook the blunder in addressing his senior, and instead turned her gaze to Seifer.

"Almasy," she exhaled. "So good of you to join us again, and as squad captain, no less."

For his part, Seifer had kicked back, his boots on the map table. "Oh, I just _love_ these exams."

The _Abadon_ lurched slightly, then bobbed as it broke free of the wharf. The shift in momentum was sudden, over as quickly as it had started. _Bismarcks_ had a hair-trigger accelerator, but once they were up to speed, it was the smoothest ride on the ocean. Even so, it would still take them a couple of hours to cross the sea to Dollet. The historic and highly fortified island city sat just off the Achelous Peninsula, due west of Balamb on the northeast tip of the Galbadia Continent.

Producing a handheld remote from her breast pocket, the colonel moved in front of the display to begin the briefing. She gestured for the others to take their seats.

"Okay, squad, listen up," Xu commenced, operating the device.

The monitor flickered, and the SeeD insignia was replaced by a wire-frame battle map of Dollet. A handful of text entries appeared across the neon-green grid, identifying key locations on the city's beachfront and downtown areas. Zell leaned forward to examine the layout, while Quistis instead referred to the printout by her knees.

"Here's the current situation: Our client is the Dollet Dukedom Parliament. A request for SeeD was made eighteen hours ago." The image shifted slightly, identifying the hostiles as a series of red markers. They swarmed the peninsula, leading an assault down the main bridge onto the island. "The Dollet Peacekeeping Force has been under attack by the Galbadian Army for around seventy-two hours."

Another slide faded in, showing the invading legions of Galbadia occupying the northwest district.

"Forty-nine hours into the siege, Dollet abandoned its position in the inner city. Their troops have retreated to the nearby Violet Mountains and are regrouping."

The next screen from the intelligence report depicted the island completely overrun. The Dukedom's stronghold and its chain of anti-naval guns were now at the disposal of their conquerors.

"That's the present status," Xu continued, conscious of the silence that had fallen over the chamber. "So, on to mission parameters. According to our eyes on the ground, the G-Army is isolating and picking off the soldiers in the mountain passes. We'll be landing at Lapin Beach in the heart of Dollet. From there, the objective of SeeD is to eliminate the G-Army in the city and liberate it without delay."

"And what are _we_ supposed to do?" Seifer asked impatiently.

She did not appreciate his tone but answered the question. "SeeD candidates are to drive what remains of the G-Army from the beach, securing a route for survivors. They will also be intercepting any efforts by the enemy to re-enter Dollet from the mainland. Essentially, you'll be our backup."

"Sounds important!" Zell nodded enthusiastically.

"Sounds boring," Seifer moaned, folding his arms.

Xu refused to dignify such a contemptuous attitude with a serious response. This was a test and he would be judged.

"Frankly, it's a miracle the Peacekeeping Force has held out as long as they have," she commented, making no secret of her surprise. Pressing the button of her remote again, the wire-frame tactical map vanished, and in its place came aerial photos of Lapin Beach, complete with an uncomfortably clear view of the defense artillery. "Which brings us to Squad B's specific objectives."

"That's a lot of guns," Zell observed, his fervor faltering.

"Try not to worry about them; they're useless once we breach the breakwaters," Xu reassured him, diverting attention from how dangerous the cannons were to vessels _outside_ the barriers. "Galbadian infantry will have no option but to engage you directly. Your assignment is simple: You are to secure Empire Plaza, a hub of strategic routes at the center of the Commercial District. Also, just so you know what to expect, Squad A will be holding the landing zone, Squad C has the inner city, and Squad D is reclaiming the Capitol Building."

"So, we do all the dirty work, huh?" Seifer snorted.

 _Maybe run your mouth_ after _you've passed the exam._

Xu had experienced live combat long before the boy was old enough to wield a gunblade, so his meager attempt to rattle her was nothing short of pitiful. She allowed a few moments for Seifer to wallow in his comrades' unspoken disdain, then concluded the brief so she could attend to other pressing matters.

"Oh, it hardly needs to be said," Xu reminded the team, acutely aware of the terms of SeeD's contract with the Dollet Parliament, "but should it come to this, an order to withdraw takes priority. Do not forget. In the meantime, rest and prepare. Be ready to hit the ground running once we arrive."


	13. Chapter 11

**Chapter XI**

The sun was sinking low behind the western mountains of Dollet, a burning beacon atop the cliffs. High overhead, the moon, too, was visible, reflected perfectly on the eerily calm sea. It loomed swollen and silver, massive even for this time of year, a silent specter watching over the convoy. The crimson glow of the battle set the coastal waters aflame, the distant sounds of gunfire ringing clear in Squall's ears.

Hundreds of bodies were engaged in open war; the waves might be choked with blood before the day ended.

The young cadet had occupied the gunner position at Seifer's order, reviewing their approach vector as the seven _Bismarck_ assault boats cut a path to the harbor. The craft were in a tight line formation, poised to disperse if needed, but otherwise minimizing their visibility from a distance. If all went as coordinated, the enemy would not notice the SeeD fleet until it was too close to activate their mounted artillery.

Squall held a wind-battered navigational printout of the view before him, albeit depicting considerably less wreckage. The island city was a compact arrangement of classical architecture and cobbled streets, spiraling around a central peak that was crowned by the Duke's Palace. The buildings had been constructed with fortification in mind, shielded behind walls of granite and forming a dense labyrinth of red slate rooftops.

On its western front, the bluffs served as a natural defense against ground invaders, while the colossal arched breakers that encircled the port created convenient bottlenecks to counter a naval siege. Two stone bridges crossed the narrow inlet between Dollet and the mainland, suspended more than a hundred feet above the bay, but their confined access had not been enough to repel the Galbadian Army.

Squall recalled a history lesson about an era when the military of the Holy Dollet Empire was considered the finest in the world, its capital an impregnable fortress. How swiftly the G-Army had shattered that illusion; it had taken them a mere three days to undo centuries of reputation.

Sliding a transparent overlay across the printout, he memorized the crisp red text highlighting key locations. The most prominent of them was the Communications Tower at the summit of a nearby mountain spur, taller than any structure in the city. It was a relic from before the radio blackout seventeen years ago, when long-range, over-the-air transmissions were inexplicably silenced. Limited short-range bursts were still possible, but it was so unreliable that most information in the modern age was sent via cable. The old eyesore had been gathering dust ever since, its broadcast spire casting a haunting silhouette against the sunset.

Raising his eyes, Squall again surveyed the fury ahead: Explosions of cannon fire; a barrage of rifle shots from every direction; flames and ice shards of haphazardly-cast para-magic. The convoy's approach was met by an inexorable stench of death on the wind.

He grimaced, but immediately shook it off. This was no time for doubt; no time to consider anything but his duty. He suppressed all voices of opposition within his mind, including Ifrit's. He had a job to do. An exam to pass.

One of the vessels on their starboard side accelerated, spraying surf across their bow. A mist of cold water swept over him, matting his fringe to his forehead, and unleashing a surge of adrenaline through his veins. The _Bismarcks_ began to pick up speed.

 _This is it_.

Maneuvering in the hatch, Squall dropped down into the craft proper. Zell, Seifer, Quistis and Xu were already standing in the hold, clutching the overhead railings by the breach door. The briefing monitor still showed the Balamb Garden insignia, but the remaining lights had been dimmed. From the way the _Abadon_ was lurching back and forth, this would be a decidedly rough landing.

"Are you all ready?" Instructor Trepe called over the clamor, her gaze hardened behind her spectacles.

Zell was rotating his shoulders to limber up, swinging a few jabs in Seifer's general direction. "Ready as we're gonna be."

"Just try to stay focused," Xu advised them. The colonel was among the most highly decorated operatives in SeeD's history, yet she wore nothing on her black jacket-and-skirt uniform to distinguish her rank. Squall assumed it served a strategic purpose; she was now less of a target. "It's like the headmaster told us: Obey your orders, remember your training, and you will make it out alive."

Squall was certain Cid had said they _may_ make it out alive, but he chose not to dwell on semantics.

A voice suddenly screeched over the intercom. "Enemy ballistics are locked on the harbor entrance. We're going to punch through the breakwater to evade them. Hang on tight."

Before Squall had a moment to react, the assault boat shook violently, rocking its passengers. He felt his head crack against a steel beam, followed by a deafening crunch of metal and a heart-stopping sensation of weightlessness. As the vessel crashed down on the other side of the barrier, time resumed its course, leaving the cadet dazed and disorientated, and a sting on his brow. Reaching up, he touched the wound, fresh blood dribbling onto his fingers.

"Suck it up!" Xu shouted as she pulled the lever to open the breach. "You better hope that's the worst you get out there…"

The gloom of the interior burned away as the access door parted to reveal a battlefield of fire and sand. The colonel was the first out, immediately coordinating the ground teams landing at varied points along the shore. Seifer, Zell, and Squall followed suit. Quistis remained aboard.

"Empire Plaza!" she commanded, pointing to a street beyond the esplanade ahead. "Go now! Secure the position!"

There was a mad rush of cadets and SeeD members on the beach, charging through volleys of gunfire towards the G-Army's defensive position. The vanguard swept south along the waterfront, disappearing over a rock formation. Across the harbor, Squall glimpsed the gaping fracture on one of the breakers, the masonry shattered and crumbling.

 _That was reckless._

At the head of Lapin Beach, the raised boulevard could be accessed via a stairwell that scaled the levee walls. The base of the steps had been guarded by an entire company of opposition troopers, but they had abandoned their post to claim the higher ground, inviting Squad B to make its move. Seifer did not hesitate, beckoning the others after him.

Squall had run on sand before, only under very different circumstances. The weight of the viscous, tide-bathed grains threatened to drag him down with each footfall. He could barely hear the sound of his boots crunching through the mud over the roar of the cannons and wails of the dying.

 _Focus!_ Squall thought, mentally slapping himself as he advanced. _You have a job to do!_

Corpses and dismembered limbs were strewn everywhere he looked, primarily belonging to victims of the Dollet Peacekeeping Force. He had anticipated such casualties, but his mind had not prepared him for the horror. Some of the SeeDs were trying to treat wounded allies stuck on the shoreline from earlier engagements, though most of the injured were beyond hope.

"Breathe!" shouted Nat, a girl with Squad D. She lifted her arms over a charred Peacekeeper's body and uttered an incantation. The familiar soothing light of a curative spell enveloped the man's brownish-green clothing, but the para-magic dissipated upon reaching the skin. Nat shook her head, peering defeatedly at her comrade. "It's no good. He's gone."

Tailing Seifer and Zell, Squall cast aside the haunting visions of the dead as he approached the staircase. Bullets continued to whiz overhead, and the wildfires that consumed their surroundings were roasting him in his jacket. Gunblade drawn, heart pounding, he took every care to avoid the blood smeared on the stone steps of the levee.

 _Keep breathing, keep moving_ , Squall chanted to himself; a mantra of self-control in the midst of the chaos. He had his weak moments, to be sure, but not now. Never in combat. This was what he had trained for his entire life. As far as he was concerned, it was just another exercise to be graded on.

The main esplanade's defenses were no more than a portable anti-ballistic blockade the Galbadians had hastily installed, likely as soon as the SeeD fleet was detected. A crack team of infantrymen was squashed behind it, shooting sporadically at the swarm of cadets in a bid to stall their progression.

The invading party had clearly not expected reinforcements by sea, or perhaps at all for that matter.

The sky-blue uniforms of the soldiers were augmented by armored breastplates, shoulder pauldrons, and metallic codpieces. Flame-scorched chrome helmets concealed their faces, their eyes covered by a triangle of red dots iconic of Galbadian forces. This gave them a robotic appearance, one which Squall believed to be advantageous to him.

 _It's far easier to kill when your opponent's been dehumanized._

Seifer strolled headfirst into the enemy fire, a dismissive frown on his insufferable face, Hyperion slung casually over his back. The SeeDs were supposed to be tackling this obstacle, but the squad leader had no intention of letting an opportunity to show off pass him by. The bullets sparked as they ricocheted off his shimmering shield of ethereal energy; a simple Protect spell, but effective against small arms.

It was with para-magic like this that nine experienced SeeD operatives – supported by twelve Program cadets – were capable of challenging an army. _This_ was the power of the GFs.

In a fit of desperation, one of the infantrymen dropped his rifle and hurled a grenade at the boy. It exploded on impact, shattering the shield, as well as Seifer's patience. A stray bullet grazed his shoulder moments later, tearing a hole through the sleeve of his trenchcoat. Bellowing furiously, the captain retaliated by unleashing a fireball on the blockade, engulfing the surrounding street in flames.

Squall turned away from the brief inferno, the screams perishing all too quickly. When he glanced back, the seared husks were still rooted to the spot. Seifer signaled the all clear to those behind him.

Squad A began to establish a perimeter around Lapin Beach, moving the wounded Peacekeepers to drier stretches of rock. Their archaic weapons and bandoliers remained on the sand; relics of the way wars were fought before the advancements of the modern era. The warrior caste of Centra's descendants had grown complacent in its supposedly impenetrable citadel. They had not stood a chance against Galbadia's precision strike.

The era of Dollet's military supremacy was long over.

On the southwest corner of the esplanade was a grand archway that bridged adjacent blocks of redbrick buildings, below which was the narrow avenue that would lead them to Empire Plaza. A stone engraving of the Hasberry Rose, a wildflower native to the coastline, was set above the portal. Squall recognized it as the national crest of the Holy Dollet Empire, a peaceful emblem that somewhat contradicted the warmongering nature of its heritage.

The distant clamor of the senior SeeDs cutting a swath through the invading forces did not exactly sound like fun to Squall, but it was obvious they were winning the engagement. A handful of G-Army bodies decorated the cobblestone street beyond the arch, bloodied and broken, their injuries fresh. Seifer amused himself by kicking the fallen enemies as he went, guiding Squall and Zell towards the Commercial District at a paced jog.

Compact rows of boutique shops and quaint townhouses lined the precinct on both sides, their neon signs and canopies a patchwork of color. Despite the buildings only being two stories high, much of the road was in shadow, but the silver radiance of the moon was caressing the nooks and crannies abandoned by the deepening sunset. Most cars were parked along the edges, though one scarlet _Torama_ convertible had been pulled out into the middle, requiring the squad to clamber over it.

Squall wondered if the vehicles had been moved in a bid to create further barriers. Their bulk had been shifted with ease, suggesting the Galbadian Army had brought more than just soldiers to Dollet.

The chorus of warfare still echoed around them while they advanced, growing steadily quieter as the tenements and the occasional skywalks between them buffered most of the noise. The brickwork had avoided any noteworthy damage, but glass shards and splintered wood littered the ground. They soon passed a small, seedy place called Spice Bar whose windows had been badly smashed. Seifer took a second to peer inside, checking for any stragglers, then muttered to himself in frustration before continuing down the thoroughfare.

 _He's looking for a fight_.

Further along on their left, cyan lights illuminated the marquee of the Shining Bomber Pub. A placard by the entrance offered a selection of beers and cocktails, its face marred by a few bullet holes. A familiar melody drifted from inside; it was a song that had been popular twenty years ago. The record seemed to be playing on the jukebox at the rear of the tavern, but it was skipping, so all Squall could hear was the repeated refrain of " _Darling, so there you are_ " over and over.

Between the cramped layout, the raging fires, and the earlier heat of the day, the town was probably as good as a furnace. And yet, at least in that respect, Squall was fairly comfortable.

 _This must be how Quistis felt in the Fire Cavern._

Suddenly, he heard movement from the walkway spanning the street overhead. Squall looked up in time to see two infantrymen leaping down on top of them, knocking he and Zell to the ground. His gunblade slid out of reach, sending sparks flying as it scraped against the cobbles. Seifer charged to their aid but was accosted from behind as another pair of troopers burst out of the pub. Reacting angrily, he twisted on the spot and drove Hyperion mercilessly through the nearest man's gut. His comrade dropped his rifle in terror and sprinted off up the street.

"You're on your own!" Seifer shouted irritably as he began his pursuit. "Get off your asses!"

Unarmed, Squall attempted a Blizzard spell, but the surprise attack had temporarily broken his concentration. Across the way from him, Zell had sprung to his feet. Opting to grapple with his own foe, his lightning-fast blows simultaneously pulverized the enemy and prevented him from countering.

In a moment of pure instinct, Squall raised his hands and shot a thunderbolt from his fingertips. The sheer energy of the para-magic launched the ambusher from him, buying him precious seconds to retrieve his weapon and finish the job properly. Revolver's blade pierced the combatant's spine, the trigger sending a shockwave through Squall's entire body.

"You okay?" Zell asked casually, brushing dirt from his pants as he studied the defeated assailants.

"Peachy."

"If we're more vigilant, it won't happen again," the blond shadowboxer said, as much to reassure himself as his teammate. "These guys are pushovers."

Squall peered down at the swordsman Zell had killed; he, too, had been wielding a gunblade. Somewhere in the vaults of his mind, a voice mocked him.

" _You're not so special after all, kid,"_ chuckled Ifrit _._

From around the bend ahead, the slender walls of the avenue carried Seifer's chaotic yells to the cadets, breaking Squall's chain of thought. "Hey, come back you Galbadian coward!"

"Idiot," Zell concluded, sighing.

 _I prefer the term "_ _sociopath_ _"._

"We should follow him."

The two recommenced their jog, warily tracing the westbound curve of the street. There was little in the way of further obstruction, though Squall did note the bullet holes from Galbadian rifles that riddled the surroundings. The exception was a vehicle parked outside the Nautilus junk shop; the royal blue _Interceptor_ roadster had been miraculously spared from damage, a single scrape along its bumper the sole blemish on its elegant appearance.

They finally caught up with Seifer at Empire Plaza, their would-be defensive post. A focal point of the city's Commercial District, the square was an elaborate intersection of the main roads that traversed Dollet's southwest quarter. A circular tile mosaic adorned the ground, bordered on all sides by old-fashioned shops and cafés. Al fresco dining tables, still laid with half-eaten meals now claimed by scavenging gulls, and wagons of flowers dotted the piazza, vacant beneath the lamplight. Wedged into the northwest corner of this celebration of classical Centran architecture was the renowned Hotel Dollet, its entrance flanked by traditional marble pillars.

A fountain dominated the heart of the plaza. It was the statue of a tragic woman, draped in robes that hauntingly cascaded her form. Squall recognized the figure from the lore of Centra; the sculpture was called "Hyne's Successor" and depicted the first sorceress in history. The shroud she wore represented the skin of Hyne, which he had given to humans to bestow upon them the secrets of magic.

Seifer was dealing with a few stragglers from the G-Army on the opposite side of the checkpoint. By the look of things, the SeeD vanguard had already moved most of the combat towards the edges of the city. Maintaining his Protect barrier again, Squad B's leader cackled as he effortlessly deflected the soldiers' futile gunshots.

Yet, something else was happening: A black, wraithlike substance had begun swimming through Seifer's veins, and his eyes seemed to gloss over, succumbing to the darkness that now enveloped him.

Squall had witnessed a summoning only once before. Xu herself had demonstrated the incredible destructive energy such a feat carried and, even then, it was under strict training conditions. Calling forth a Guardian Force demanded a focused mind, an abnormal degree of the summoner's vitality, and a burst of emotion caused by desperation, fear, grief or anger.

There were a thousand reasons an amateur should never risk it. Summoning meant surrendering control of your will to the GF. The power was surreal, godlike even, but one could easily lose their very essence in the process. Xu had intended to make sure her students understood the dangers perfectly; right now, Seifer was ignoring them. That he could be unleashing his Guardian Force meant he was either far less collected than he let on or his bloodlust was beyond comprehension.

As the black-winged specter rose from his trenchcoated husk, Squall was overcome by horror. The demon conjured an ebony sphere, manipulating the Void, distorting the reality of everything around it. The surviving Galbadian infantrymen were immediately absorbed into the dense gravitational vortex, only to be spat back out, drained and useless. Their emaciated corpses were somehow more gruesome than those Seifer had burned alive.

As swiftly as it had emerged, the devilish fiend evaporated, and the squad leader stood before them once more. He slumped onto a nearby bench, sluggishly attempting to regain his composure. Peering up at Zell and Squall, he flashed them a cocky smirk.

"I gotta admit," Seifer chuckled between pants, "you two are doing a good job at the 'staying out of my way' part."

"What now?" asked Squall.

The leader wrinkled his scarred nose. "Now, we're on _guard_ duty."

Determined not to betray any sign of weakness, Seifer was quickly on his feet again and began to pace slowly, albeit with a bit of a shaky gait. Squall sensed an unwholesome calm emanating from his blond rival. This was his element.

South of their position, they heard a number of explosions ring out, followed by the whistling of the anti-naval guns. Crossfire on the beaches and marinas soon joined the cacophony. The SeeDs were beginning their main push, reinforced by the assault boat artillery.

"Sounds like it's starting," Squall remarked.

"Bring it on," Seifer grunted, coolly tapping the hilt of Hyperion against his shoulder in impatience, continuing his patrol of the plaza.

Squall had no trouble ignoring the gore about him. It was all part of his mantra: Stay focused, do not let things get to you. But, somehow, Seifer had always managed to find a way to drag his insecurities from him, to sap every last ounce of self-confidence and comprehension of the world.

 _A summoning_ … _seriously?_

Squall could still not believe what he had witnessed. The captain would be disqualified for certain. And yet the casual nature of the act, so familiar, so assured, seemed to indicate that this had not been Seifer's first time to call the creature forth. He had always known the boy to be arrogant, aggressive, and violent.

But now, Squall wondered if Seifer was even sane…


	14. Chapter 12

**Chapter XII**

In the hour that passed, time seemed to stand still for Squad B as they routinely patrolled Empire Plaza. The patience-testing monotony of their post was beginning to get the better of Squall. They were alone, and all was quiet except for the distant sounds of battle. Yet, the din was trailing further away, and Seifer was growing irritated. With sunset imminent, the sky's crimson hue deepened. The electric streetlamps had buzzed into life, seemingly unaffected by the invasion, and the moon was steadily rising, full and bright. Should the mission press into the evening, they would not want for light at the very least.

Squall had taken a seat beneath the awning of Hotel Dollet. The building was one of the largest and most luxurious in town, though much of its height came from a domed bell tower, complete with a wonderfully restored analog clock. A rare sight in the modern age, the hour marks on the clockface were numbered using characters from the ancient Centran language. Few knew how to read the long-dead tongue, but the uniform placement made it easy enough to interpret.

Zell had used the time to lay the bodies of the Galbadian soldiers along the edge of the road. The chore was deemed unnecessary by Seifer; neither he nor Squall had offered to help. Still, the honor-driven warrior had mumbled something about his grandfather's wishes and commenced the task alone. Even by himself, it had not taken long, withered as the cadavers were from the decimation of Seifer's summoning.

"Moon's pretty big, huh," Zell remarked, looking for something to spark conversation.

"Astonishing observation," sniped Seifer, grinding his boot into the cobblestone. "It's a wonder you're not top of your class."

"You know what I meant," he sighed.

Squall glanced skywards, trailing up the side of the hotel. Adrift in the vermillion sea above them, the ghostly sphere dominated the heavens, more massive than he had ever seen it. Despite being fathoms away in reality, it felt as though he could reach into the air and pluck the moon from its voyage.

"It's your imagination," Seifer said, feigning sympathy. "I promise you the sky isn't falling."

"I know that, jack— er, sir," Zell growled, restraining himself at the last second. He was still being tested. They all were. "I just think it's interesting. They taught us about lunar cycles, y'know? Where the moon draws closer to the planet for a few years and then farther away after…"

He trailed off, running a frustrated hand through his mess of blond spikes, but Squall understood what he had intended to conclude with.

 _After a Lunar Cry_ …

Staring again at the silver orb, he found himself mildly curious about the subject, but it was an inappropriate time to discuss such things. Musing on a recurring natural disaster they could do nothing to stop was hardly productive. With no additional commentary, silence resumed. Zell coped by studying the fountain, rambling inaudibly as if trying to goad the others into asking him to share his oh-so-precious information.

The bell in the tower tolled seven times: 1900 hours.

As they listened to the dull chimes, Seifer absently reached a gloved hand to his forehead and touched the scar he had received from his dueling partner that very morning. Squall had noted the wound's miraculous recovery during homeroom – albeit in bewilderment – but had not yet addressed it with the cheater.

Peering up, Seifer caught his gaze, and smirked remorselessly. "GF healing's a great thing."

 _It means we were never in a fair fight!_

"Oh?" Squall turned away from him, his response more reactionary than intentional.

"Yeah, you're lucky I only gave you a scar," the captain continued pompously. "Could easily have done worse. And in a _real_ battle, you won't get to go whining to a teacher about it."

Squall was unable to manage a constructive reply, so opted instead not to humor Seifer with a retort.

 _Whatever_ _…_

Leaving his comrades to bicker between themselves, Zell walked off towards the fountain at the center of the plaza. The cobblestone mosaic that encircled it had been painted to form a stationary compass, with cream pointers on a seafoam green field that indicated the four cardinal directions. The message was clear enough: "This city's reach is global".

 _I wonder if they meant Dollet or Centra. Either way, it's no longer accurate._

Despite possessing a mind full of trivia, Zell was no model student. The gearhead enjoyed stories, both learning new ones and recounting old folktales. Yet, peculiarly, he had never cared for the minute details. He fancied himself a jack of all trades, but a more honest self-evaluation would be that he was too easily distracted to delve deeply into anything. Machines had been the exception for some reason.

From a young age, he could willingly spend hours tearing them apart and putting them back together. This inclination is what led him to selecting Combat Technician as his specialty. The field required people to solve the daunting riddles of troubleshooting while under fire. No matter the level of stress, Zell could always find the solution.

"Machines make sense," he often said to himself.

It was true enough: They followed basic laws governing their assembly and use. Other academic fields were rarely as structured. History could often be complicated; Zell struggled with his native language, let alone a foreign one; theoretical sciences confused him. Even when it came to practical matters such as combat, he still had his issues.

He did not really _like_ using spells, for one thing. The cadet would do it in a pinch, but there was a certain aptitude for it which he lacked. Instructor Faust, the Garden's resident expert in arcana, had once told his students that women generally had an easier grasp of para-magic. This caused Zell to daydream for the remainder of the class about the Great Hyne, an ancient deity who had secretly imparted his essence into a select group of females.

Given his interest in such lore, Zell had taken slight amusement from the fact three of the main streets to branch off Empire Plaza were named for Centran historical figures. The avenue from which Squad B had come bore a plaque on the corner, naming it Via Zebalga. The westbound boulevard featured a bent sign on the side of the hotel: Via Vascaroon. The road out of town to the northwest was Via Raiden. Zebalga and Vascaroon were characters from the legend of Hyne, while Raiden was a former duke of Dollet, and son of the last ruler of Centra, King Odin.

Zell's musings were interrupted by a soft padding of paws drawing towards them. A ragged-looking foxhound with tawny fur slowly approached the group, its tail between its legs and head bowed. The dog had clearly hoped to be ignored as it searched the restaurant tables and bins for scraps of food. Slinking behind Seifer, however, it boldly sniffed him and immediately turned its nose up. Affronted, the captain swiped at it with his arm.

"Scram!"

Panicked, the pup scurried over to Zell, who bent down to offer it a bite from his rations. He did so primarily out of compassion, but there was also mild defiance present in the deed. The dog was scrawny and in dire need of a bath, and it gnawed at the dried meat as if its life depended on it. Perhaps it did; its owners might have died in the conflict. One small act of selflessness could so often be priceless.

 _As priceless as the disgust on Seifer's face right now!_

"You're going to waste your food on that _mutt_?" Seifer spat, enraged as the canine feasted from Zell's hand. Squall figured it was a fine change of pace from his arrogant sneers.

"He's a survivor, too," answered their colleague. "Isn't this why we're here?"

 _You wanted to pet him,_ Squall realized, but did not bother voicing.

That was another concern of his: They _were_ supposed to be creating an escape route for the resistance soldiers still trapped on the mountain. Empire Plaza was a key checkpoint, located halfway between Lapin Beach and the foothills where the allied forces were allegedly holed up. The SeeD vanguard had obviously done its job of pushing the G-Army back, but nobody from the rescued party had yet made it this far.

 _So, what's the delay?_

Seifer shot Zell a nasty look. "We've been waiting here for an hour while the fight goes on without us. What the hell's the point of it all? This is a _combat_ mission, and we're standing around doing _nothing!_ "

" _Something's gone wrong_ ," Ifrit whispered persuasively. " _What are you going to do about it?"_

 _I'll do as I'm commanded._

Right on cue, the Squad B leader let out a furious bellow, slashing his gunblade wildly in frustration. "I can't take this anymore! They're treating us like children!"

Seifer was too busy having his tantrum to heed the mutt starting to growl in the direction of Via Raiden. According to Xu's brief, the thoroughfare led to the primary viaduct bridging the channel between Dollet and the mainland, blockaded a short distance from the piazza by two battered personnel carriers. The Galbadian vehicles were a dingy grey color and had no remaining identifiers other than the national crest on their hoods. The design itself was a hexagon formed of three toothed figures, two on top and one on the bottom, representing the Centran character for "G". The spear-shaped cavities in the letters were impressively menacing.

Had they not been subtly shifting, the mangled vans would not have merited Squall's notice.

"Guys," he hissed, raising his hand.

The dog suddenly abandoned Zell's affection and darted across the square, letting out three howls in quick succession. Contrary to all Seifer's derision, it became instantly apparent that this was no ordinary foxhound; it was one of the Peacekeeper's canine patrols. Triples of any kind were a standard emergency signal.

It meant danger.

Seifer had missed Squall's warning, but he too understood the wails. With a wave of his arm, he directed them to seek cover. Ducking low, the trio hurried to the southeast corner of the plaza, concealing themselves behind the entrance to one of the bistros.

"Weren't you desperate for some action?" Zell teased, unable to help himself.

 _This is not the time!_

Seifer did not respond. It was possible, in spite of his insufferable boasting, he had reached the same conclusion as Squall: Something had gone terribly wrong with the mission. There had been no updates from the other squads, nor even a hint of a withdrawal order. The battle had now trailed so far across the city that it was barely audible.

Yet, here came an unexpected detachment of G-Army infantry, stealing through the streets uncontested. Squall doubted the legendary mercenaries of SeeD had been defeated by Galbadian pawns, but the latter's presence in Empire Plaza was an uncomfortable mystery. Recalling his tactics training, one word seemed more appropriate than any other: _Diversion_ _._

The soldiers were in sight now, around a dozen of them led by a scarlet-uniformed officer. Hardly an effective attack force, so this was unlikely an attempt to flank the SeeDs. The point man surveyed the square, his eyes lingering on Zell's arrangement of mangled bodies, before turning his attention to the shadowy lane where the boys were hiding. He held up a fist and Squall tightened his grip on the hilt of his gunblade.

A few seconds ticked by, then the officer gave the all clear. The troupe moved on as stealthily as possible in their bulky armor, rifles at the ready. Rather than heading for Lapin Beach as expected, however, they hastened around the classical façade of Hotel Dollet and proceeded up Via Vascaroon towards the foothills.

"Well... _that's_ curious," Seifer remarked pensively.

Squall followed his captain's heavensward gaze, frowning as he spotted the silhouette atop Siren's Peak. The Communications Tower was the one he had noted on the navigational printout, an imposing feature of the mountain. He wondered if it offered a potential explanation for the current anomaly; since nobody was coming out of the pass, perhaps the survivors had been forced to find shelter at the old facility and were now pinned down.

If that were true, there was a chance the G-Army was trying to sidetrack the SeeD vanguard while they finished the job.

Zell motioned towards the tower. "What _is_ that?"

"Our next objective," said Seifer.

"Whoa, you can't be serious!" Zell shook his head, his tattoo a blur in the fading twilight. "We're under orders."

"The Galbadians have an interest in that location," he surmised, licking his lips like a hungry predator. "I want to know what they're doing up there."

"We should report–"

"By the time we get back to the SeeD officials," Seifer asserted, accentuating his argument with a common slur, "the _tin-heads_ will already have what they're after."

 _We're supposed to be better than that._

"This isn't just any battle," Zell insisted, his voice tinged with apprehension. "It's a test! An important one. Everything we do is being judged. And you're telling me you want to go against our assignment? Squall, are you buying this?"

Squall hated to admit it, but while Seifer's motives were decidedly not selfless, there was a good chance the mission was already a failure. They could always send Zell running back to the beach to relay the situation or request reinforcements, but between the travel, the explanation, and the subsequent deliberation, the G-Army would have more than enough time to complete their objective.

 _Whatever that objective is_ …

Once again, Squall considered what they had been taught about improvised strategy. There was a credo amongst scouts in the various military forces throughout the world: _Report what an enemy is doing, not where they are going._ This was a somewhat simplified way of expressing the blunt reality that detailing enemy movement merely added an extra step to finding out exactly what was going on. Zell was right, though: This was a make-or-break exam and they were under strict orders not to leave their post.

 _Yet, if we could've done something to prevent the worst from happening and didn't_...

"I agree with the _captain_ 's decision," Squall replied, putting a delicate stress on the honorific.

"' _Captain_ 's decision?'" Seifer turned towards his fellow Saber, nonplussed by his unexpected support, and gave him a fraternal pat on the shoulder. "You want to see some action too, eh?"

Squall rolled his eyes and removed Seifer's hand. "You made a valid point. Besides, thanks to our training, I feel like I can take on anyone. Even if they fight dirty."

Seifer shrugged, resuming his patronizing grin. "You'll thank me when the time comes."

"I thought you guys were supposed to be rivals?" Zell gaped at them in disbelief. " _Now_ you choose to be all buddy-buddy?"

Seifer waved a dismissive palm, drawing Hyperion and heading for Via Vascaroon. "Well, you can stay here if you want, chicken-wuss. Squall and I are going to get to the bottom of this."

To his credit, Zell seemed to contemplate standing his ground for a moment before begrudgingly falling in line behind his comrades.


	15. Chapter 13

**Chapter XIII**

The neighborhoods adjacent to Via Vascaroon were mostly lower-class residential wards. The squad passed row after row of sterile, brick-and-mortar apartment buildings, each standing four stories high and five units wide. The uniformity was a practical matter; the island only had so many square miles after all. Quistis had mentioned how the middle-class enjoyed townhouses in the northern districts, and the wealthy exclusively owned beachfront manors on the eastern banks. Those with the least economic influence dwelled in cramped tenements like these.

To add insult to their injury, this was by far the most heavily bombarded area the team had witnessed in the city. The battle that had pushed the resistance into the mountains had left its mark. The road was covered in debris, shards of glass and shell casings. Sporadic fires ignited by enemy para-magic or local petrol bombs were still smoldering; in some cases, corpses served as their kindling. Blood stained the ground and walls, literally painting the picture of a desperate retreat that, for many, was savagely cut short.

After a while, the trio came to a shattered storefront where part of an ornate portico had collapsed, creating a sizeable pile of rubble for them to scramble across. Squall wondered whether it was collateral damage or if the Dollet resistance had detonated the structure in a deliberate attempt to slow their pursuers.

As the cadets passed, a number of window shutters slammed closed. Some locals who had been displaced by the chaos scurried through nearby alleys or cowered behind large trash piles. Despite their torn clothes and dirty faces, they appeared mostly unharmed, yet looked upon the teens with fear and suspicion.

 _Who can blame them?_

"We're on your side," Zell tried feebly to reassure them, uncertain what he was supposed to say, if anything, to the victims.

 _They don't care whose side we're on,_ Squall surmised. _Weapons from both armies destroyed their homes._

"Let them hide," Seifer snorted. "If the cowards had been out fighting, maybe Dollet would have stood a chance."

It seemed like Zell was learning not to take the bait. He kept his mouth shut, but Squall could tell he was seething.

Every dozen feet or so, there was another totaled car, broken-in door or busted window. Trash cans had been scattered in all directions, spilling refuse onto the streets. It might have been supper for the foxhound, but the mutt had not accompanied them, electing to root around Empire Plaza in search of its handler. Amid the devastation, Zell paused, bending down to pick up a sheet of crumpled paper. It was one of a series of identical fliers, printed in red ink and bearing the Galbadian crest at the top.

"Hey guys," Zell said, "check this out…"

 _PUBLIC NOTICE:_

 _To the citizenry of the Dukedom of Dollet,_

 _Your city has been found in violation of the armistice between our two nations. For this, you have only your duke to blame. The Galbadian Army is here to ensure peace._

 _For your safety, please remain indoors. Officers of the Galbadian Army will provide food and medical assistance to any affected by our necessary actions._

 _So long as you do not interfere, you shall not be harmed. Once order has been restored, Dollet's sovereignty will be honored._

"That's a masterwork of propaganda," Zell commented, reading the pamphlet again. "What do you think they mean by 'violating the armistice?'"

The pugilist's confusion was understandable; the historical significance was not immediately obvious. While the relationship between the nations had been tense for generations, they had set aside their differences during the Sorceress War two decades prior. Squall recalled seeing a famous photograph in a textbook somewhere of Duke Derrick Gestalt and President Deling of Galbadia signing a treaty to that effect.

"It's probably just an excuse to invade," Seifer speculated, crumpling the paper in disgust and marching on. "Explains why the residents are hiding out, though."

 _And why they aren't exactly happy to see us…_

A few blocks beyond was a small stretch of industry, a row of factories and what appeared to be an abandoned hydroelectric plant tracing the southwestern cliffs. The buildings had been steadily shrinking as the company moved down the road, ending abruptly at the arch bridge leading into the mountains.

The inlet separating the town and the mainland was surprisingly narrow, spanning about two hundred feet across, but formed a vast ravine between the respective bluffs. The rocky precipices of the peninsula created a bleak vista on this side of the island, and a treacherous drop into the waves that lashed the bay.

The viaduct itself was centuries old, blending archaic stonework with reinforced parapets and neoclassical streetlamps. As the hour crept towards darkness, the warm lamplight was much appreciated, producing an interesting effect on the faux cobblestone. The crossing did more than grant access to the northernmost spur of the Hasberry Mountains, it put the cadets within reach of the Communications Tower.

Devoid of vehicle barricades and wreckage though it was, the bridge was laden in corpses. For every Galbadian grunt they saw, there were at least three Dollet Peacekeepers. A G-Army troop transport lay pitched over the left side about halfway up, its flat tires and rear-mounted engine keeping it tail-heavy enough to avoid falling entirely.

"Guess the enemy has already made it across," said Seifer, unmoved by the grim scene.

The stonehearted captain quickened his pace to a sprint, slowing briefly as he passed by the derelict truck. Zell tried to share a look of commiseration with Squall, who simply shrugged.

 _We're committed to this now. May as well see it through._

As they approached the far end of the viaduct, they noticed a broad staircase carved into the rock, scaling the spur all the way to Siren's Peak. The trail was lined with bushes, the occasional leafy tree and patches of dried grass. Every inch of it, however, was tainted by death. Squall surveyed the slaughter and felt a momentary flicker of some twisted emotion he could not quite identify. The deceased were primarily adolescent men and women, all around his age or perhaps a few years older.

It was the tradition of the warlike nation for able-bodied youth to take up arms. Those who did not enroll in one of the Gardens' officer programs – SeeD being the most elite – generally enlisted as regular reserves. The practice used to be mandatory, but since the end of the Sorceress War, conscription had been relaxed. Even so, Dollet still boasted a larger-than-average military presence for its population.

The main problem with their forces was washout. After serving a four-year term, many of the seasoned Peacekeepers left to pursue civilian careers, having fulfilled their social obligation to the dukedom. The unfortunate consequence was a lack of hierarchical discipline, and a citizenry which had grown soft.

 _Now the younger generation has paid for it…_

As they climbed the staircase, there was a sudden shuffling from a thick malgo bush to their right, a wall of golden leaves quivering on the thorny branches. Seifer lifted his gunblade, poised to strike, but the source of the disruption soon revealed itself to be a Dollet soldier. What had been his olive-green uniform was now a blood-soaked rag, the torn pieces exposing serious flesh wounds as he dragged himself out of the shrub.

"G-go back," he cried weakly. "Not... safe."

Squall and Zell rushed over to him, the latter tending to the man's injuries and fumbling about his utility belt for a healing potion. Assessing the casualty, the Saber realized how futile this was.

"He's already dead," Squall sighed, the memory of Nat's failed para-magic on the beach replaying in his mind. "His lungs are shredded. It won't help."

"We have to do something!" Zell retorted angrily.

Squall turned away from the dying Peacekeeper, his arms folded. "The tonic won't work."

 _If only I was any good at curative spells, then maybe…_

"How can you be so damn callous?" his teammate cursed, hands shaking as he tried to decant the blue vial.

Struggling against his rage, Zell almost dropped the potion, but defiantly began to pour it over a jagged, oozing laceration. The man's breathing continued, raspy and pained, but there was no sign his lungs were beginning to function properly.

"Those aren't bullet holes," Seifer observed, casting his eyes warily across the mountainside, palm on the hilt of his blade.

The Dollet trooper let out short, choked gasps, desperately seeking air. He could inhale as much as he wanted, but the oxygen was not getting to his bloodstream.

"C'mon, dude, don't die on me!" Zell pleaded, grabbing for another potion, but Seifer stopped him.

"Don't be an idiot," the squad leader commanded, his tone icy.

"He's not gone yet!" Zell shouted back. "We can fix him!"

The captain was right, of course. In his irrationality, their comrade was only making things worse.

 _We've seen scores die today. We've even killed a few ourselves. Why is this any different?_

Squall stepped forward to try and ease Zell away, but both recoiled sharply as a huge serpentine form crashed down on them from an overhang above. The monster was about fifteen feet snout to tail, with jade-green scales and reddish spikes down its back. Two ridged crests curtained its crown like a cobra, vibrating in a threatening display of dominance.

In a single swift motion, the creature twisted towards the Peacekeeper and thrust its gaping maw at him, unhinging its jaw to devour the man whole. His final, horrific wheeze was silenced as the snake's mouth snapped shut once more, replaced by a gurgling sound while its digestive acids got to work.

Squall repressed the urge to retch and Zell roared in anguish.

"An anacondaur." Seifer grinned as he raised Hyperion again. "Finally, a fight worth my time."

There was an intensity in his eyes, an unhealthy lust for battle. The fiend shifted its meal in its stomach, allowing it to maneuver more freely as it loomed above the three on the stairs. Hissing wildly, it reared its head, preparing to attack when Zell shot sparks of energy from his fingertips. Lightning bolts crackled through the air and wound around the scales of the anacondaur. It let out an agonized shriek before countering with a second lunge, forcing Zell to leap backwards to safety.

Squall had not yet had an opportunity to face a species of wyrmkin like this in the Training Center, but he had read about them in class. The Holy Dollet Empire had once revered these foul things as cousins of dragons due to the arrangement of spiked flesh at its midriff; from afar, it did resemble wings. Large sacks under its jaw carried a potent toxin, which it could deliver either by spitting or by injecting via its fangs. On their native prey, such as the lizard-like geezards, the poison was instantly fatal, but it was also lethal to humans if untreated.

Seifer was eager to take advantage of the anacondaur's attraction to Zell to cleave a hunk of flesh from its neck. His trenchcoat whipped frantically as he rushed it, his blade high and arm outstretched. The wyrmkin spun to meet his advance and smashed the captain against the adjacent crag with its barbed tail, knocking the wind out of him. The crunch was sickening, and Squall felt a sliver of concern for his academic adversary.

The monster emitted a shrill hiss and discharged a concentrated spray of venom at Zell, the greenish liquid crackling and smoldering as it hit the malgo bush behind him, immediately dissolving the leaves. Squall tried to focus enough to throw a fireball, but it was to no avail, and Ifrit's whispering taunts were too much of a distraction. Opting instead for brute strength, Squall charged at the anacondaur, slicing its back and squeezing the weapon's trigger. The savage shear enraged the beast, and the cadet paid for his efforts with a ferocious blow to the ribs, sending him tumbling down the steps. For a moment, Squall could barely breathe, his chest muscles protesting as he sucked in tiny mouthfuls of air.

Zell recaptured the fiend's attention by hurling another Thunder spell, causing it to howl. Dodging its retaliatory lurch, the pugilist caught the serpent's neck in his bare hands, gritting his teeth as he held it in place. His raw fury erupting in a mighty bellow, Zell heaved the snake up and over his body before slamming it into the ground.

The suplex was a feat that would have been impossible without the aid of a Guardian Force. The foe was dazed enough for Zell to land a critical punch to its fangs, splintering two of them in the process. The anacondaur spat again, finally catching its mark as the boy stumbled back, hastily scraping the vile substance off with his protective gloves before it burned a hole in his sleeve.

Seizing its chance, the creature slithered forward and hurled itself at Squall, who instinctively rolled under it to leave it face-to-face with Seifer. The leader made no mistake this time, carving Hyperion through its throat like a guillotine, decapitating the hideous beast. The wretched thing could not even manage a death knell, only residual twitching, its two halves collapsing in a pool of its own blood.

Zell grunted miserably as he reached into the breast pocket of his uniform jacket, pulling out another small vial that was filled with orange-colored medicine.

"Good thing I plan ahead, huh?" he joked, grimacing as he applied the foul-smelling antidote to his skin. He rubbed all the areas affected by the poison and swallowed the remainder, gagging from its bitter taste.

The remedy was a broad anti-venom designed for topical or oral use, and a standard part of the obligatory first-aid kits. Zell made a pretty decent attempt at masking his discomfort, but any experienced soldier could tell he was suffering; the one-man wrecking crew had his limits after all. Again, Squall lamented his inadequate training in restorative para-magic. He was lucky to have avoided the toxin, and his wounds were already beginning to mend of their own accord.

 _Thanks to Ifrit's influence_.

"Looks like the Dollet troops retreated up here," Squall deduced, as he staggered to his feet, "only to become snacks for these things."

"The G-Army on one side and monsters on the other," Zell mumbled, still shaking from the pain of his burns and the fading high of combat. "We... we have to report this. There's nobody left to save."

Seifer's expression darkened as he peered back towards the city. From their vantage point, they could make out the moored assault boats and ongoing recovery at Lapin Beach, but the SeeD vanguard was nowhere to be seen. The captain was clearly unprepared to admit defeat after coming this far; his tenacity might have been admirable were it not so reckless.

Wiping a strand of the anacondaur's sinew from his trenchcoat, he shook his head defiantly. "No. There's still a chance to have a bit of fun and earn some renown in the process. We're going to the tower and we're stopping the Galbadians."

 _You're just looking to cause mayhem._

"Seifer, we don't even know what's waiting for us up there," Zell shot back.

"Finding out is the exciting part," he insisted, raising his fist as if to feign solidarity. "Besides, don't tell me you don't want a little revenge."

Zell lowered his head, the truth of the accusation cutting him to the core. Somehow, despite all his faults, Seifer was a master in penetrating the thickest of shells with his words. Had this talent not been entirely tuned to manipulation and bullying, it could have been an invaluable skill for an officer. Just another natural gift squandered by his innate selfishness. Perhaps this was the lesson in assigning Squall to Seifer's squad: To witness firsthand the fine line that separated real leaders from the overpromoted rabble.

 _So near, and yet so far._

"Come on," Seifer ordered, gesturing with Hyperion towards the summit of Siren's Peak. "We're not finished yet…"


	16. Chapter 14

**Chapter XIV**

High above Dollet towered twin mountain ranges which in antiquity had provided a natural bottleneck defense for the island. To the north sprawled the Wild Rose Massifs, an impenetrable collection of rock colossi that partitioned the Hasberry Plains and a coastal wilderness known as Holy Glory Cape. The dominant flora of these lands, the Hasberry Roses, had been considered a sign of Hyne's favor. To the south, amid the plateaus of the Violet Mountains, was Siren's Peak. This deceptive moniker had an interesting origin, or so it had seemed to Squall's old geography teacher. Enemies endeavoring to assault the dukedom would be forced to approach from a single route: Descending a steep pass towards the remote citadel.

The jutting overhangs of this canyon between the ranges had long ago been adapted for ambushes. Masons had carved footholds in the switchbacks, later evolving them into staircases accessible to stone-throwers and archers. These proud protectors would stand guard atop the earthen sentinels, scouting out any army foolish enough to invade. And thus, like the mythical Siren herself, an attractive path proved deadly to anyone lured in.

This served the natives well until the first of Centra's great naval fleets sought conquest on these shores, and their land defenses became redundant. Gradually, over time, the archers abandoned their posts, but the vantage points were put to other uses. In peacetime, they served as an ideal spot to erect radio spires for live broadcasts between nations. The Communications Tower had been built on the eastern side of the peak, overlooking the bay where the earliest Centran ships had docked.

There was a suspicion among scholars that the architects had taken inspiration from ancient imperial watchtowers.

Recently, however, radio transmission had not been possible; the seventeen years since the Sorceress War had seen the world engulfed in a network blackout. Video feeds over the airwaves sent only empty static, and the audio signals were garbled into incomprehensible white noise. A global civilization brought closer together by the miracle of instantaneous correspondence fell apart, and isolation became the norm. Countless theories existed as to what exactly happened during the villainous Sorceress Adel's final days, yet the truth remained an enigma. Modern television was prerecorded and digitally transmitted by the Galbadia-maintained HD cable lines.

The trail Squad B had hiked was immersed in the remnants of Dollet's past conflicts, and freshly spoiled with evidence of an ongoing battle. They passed more corpses as they climbed, but the bulk of the Peacekeepers had perished at the base of the mount. Since their encounter with the anacondaur, the cadets had yet to cross any other opponent, either monster or Galbadian. Nevertheless, there was a growing sense of dread between Zell and Squall.

"The Galbadians aren't even conducting basic patrols," Seifer noted, frowning as he scanned the surrounding crags. "They've all got to be in the facility."

"But, why?" Zell asked quietly. "The damn thing doesn't work anymore."

The captain did not have an answer, but it was too valid a question for him to give a snappy response to. He chose to stay silent for once. It was a welcome reprieve.

As they ascended, the sun sank tantalizingly close to the horizon, casting a magnificent orange hue across the massifs. A sprinkling of stars had already appeared in the eastern skies, pinpricks of light on the looming crimson field. The moon's silver radiance was intensifying by the hour, much of its face now concealed from them by the enormous silhouette of the Communications Tower's antenna.

Reaching the summit, Seifer slowed his pace to something approaching cautious. They were finally hearing signs of life: The distant rumble of machinery within the structure, and chatter of troopers. Ahead, the paved track wound around a sizeable rock formation and down into the cradle of the monolith. The squad found themselves temporarily on higher ground – though the outcrop elevated them a mere ten feet – and crouched behind a pair of boulders to observe the enemy.

Two sentries stood watch at the entrance, prattling on about some event they had attended which turned out to be a scam. The spinning and clattering racket of power tools echoed from the top of the construct, reverberating down all ten stories of well-weathered steel. Toward the height of the spire was a circular control deck, an exterior platform that ringed what was currently an empty frame. A trio of derelict satellite dishes marked its perimeter, arranged in a triangle to best capture whatever radio waves had once traversed the heavens. Extending over the precipice, the deck offered an unobstructed view of the ocean, and must have been a vertigo-inducing nightmare for its workers.

From their hiding spot, Seifer peered down at the guards. "What the hell are they doing?"

The doorway suddenly parted and another duo emerged, apparently providing a status report. A quick scan of their insignia identified three of them as low-rank grunts, and the fourth in scarlet uniform was a sergeant.

"Generator's up and running," the latter man advised his subordinates. "No problem with the booster. Shouldn't be too much longer."

"Cable disconnection confirmed," added the private by his side.

From a training perspective, it was sensible to pair the least experienced to the most veteran; in practice, however, it meant there was an easy target on the field. If Squall had recognized this, so had Seifer.

"Roger," said one of the sentries, saluting. "We'll take it from here. How goes the encoding process?"

"Major Biggs has decided to tackle that himself," the sergeant scoffed. "He and his pet lieutenant."

Squall turned to the others. "Repairs? I guess you were right, Zell."

"Who cares?" dismissed Seifer. "We're gonna storm a stronghold full of Galbadian infantry. With no backup. You frightened, scar-face?"

 _I'm not really sure._

He supposed he should be, despite the obstacles they had already overcome today. With the power of the GFs surging through their veins, they were capable of superhuman feats, but far from invincible. Regardless, he shook his head, suppressing those doubts. The young lion had survived this far by focusing on the mission; his feelings were irrelevant.

"I don't know," Squall replied flatly. "I try not to think about it."

Seifer patted him on the shoulder, once again demonstrating fake comradery.

That was when it hit Squall: There was something deeper to this boy than impulsive aggression. Gunblades were two-handed weapons, yet Seifer always chose to brandish his with a single outstretched arm. The combat posture was more difficult to master, but it did have a certain aesthetic appeal. And then there was the name he had given to his blade: Hyperion, the saber wielded by the hero of the classic tale, _Zefer_. Even the shoulder pat was a trademark of the swordsman with the flowing black hair and fair features. For all his bravado, it was conceivable Seifer was simply acting out a role.

 _Now, there's an interesting thought_ …

"I love it!" he boasted, his blue eyes aflame with the reflection of the sunset. "I fear nothing! The way I see it, every fight you come out of alive is one step closer to fulfilling your dream. You must have one, too?"

"Huh? My dream?" Squall had not been expecting something so personal out of his rival's mouth, and certainly had no intention of mustering a response of any real depth. "I'm gonna have to pass on that subject."

Seifer groaned in annoyance and returned to scoping out the watchmen. It seemed he was waiting for the opportune moment to strike, but the opening had yet to present itself.

"Squall, what good is being a warrior if you're not fighting for something? Or, in my case, _somebody_?" Seifer mused, a line far too poetic to be his original creation. "Oh, I guess I've never told you about _her_."

Zell made a sound halfway between a gasp and a giggle. "You mean you got a girlfriend?"

"Mind your own business, chicken-wuss!" Seifer hissed.

"Friggin' hell, man," Zell mumbled to himself, disdain etched across his brow.

The opportunity to torment the boxer appeared to rejuvenate his asshole persona, and the brief show of humanity was gone. Before any more jibes could be exchanged, though, one of the guards left his post – his hurried movements indicating he needed to relieve himself – and the chance Seifer had been holding out for had finally come. In an explosion of recklessness, the captain leapt to his feet and charged down the trail.

Zell exhaled and folded his arms. "Just like that, he runs off."

As the two made to follow him, there was a scuffling among the rocks at their rear. Beyond the patchwork of weeds and shrubs, a short incline of scree clambered up into a hazardous arrangement of boulders. A shadow was creeping there, but Squall could not quite detect who or what it belonged to. He unsheathed his weapon.

 _Scouts? A geezard? Another anacondaur?_

"The worst possible time," Zell moaned, cracking his knuckles and rolling up his sleeves. "Reinforcements?"

"Better hope not," Squall answered coolly, his finger hovering over Revolver's trigger.

If they could not retreat, the only other way off the mountain was one they would not survive. The teens put their backs to the stone verge, and Zell looked to the path's U-bend in search of aid, but Seifer was already too far gone. Then came a _crunch_ , _crunch_ of boots at quick pace on the ridge. The wind on the peak picked up, whistling as it swept through the iron foundations of the tower.

"Sounds like one person," Zell commented. "Maybe we'll be–"

There was a sudden commotion below the outcrop, the Galbadian soldiers yelling in confusion as Seifer let out a battle cry. Steel crashed against steel, singing a barbaric chorus. Risking a glance, Squall watched the grey-coated Saber easily neutralize the men; his earlier regard for stealth utterly abandoned.

"Squall, eyes up!" Zell barked.

He peered back in time to see a puff of brown hair collide with him as the unknown assailant tumbled down the scree, knocking the gunblade from his grip. In the second it took him to catch his breath and react with a defensive maneuver, Squall realized he was not under attack; he had merely been used to brace the fall of a familiar female cadet.

" _Selphie_?" Zell croaked.

The young transfer student pulled herself off Squall and patted dust off the skirt of her navy uniform, ignoring the now-lopsided position of her yellow tie. Somewhere along the way, she had also ripped a substantial hole in one of her knee-high socks, earning a pretty nasty gash for her trouble. She was accompanied by the faintest hint of lavender perfume, its subtleness competing against the stronger scents of smoke and gunpowder.

And there was a suspicious bloodstain on the links of her nunchaku.

"Hey, hi guys!" Selphie chimed cheerily, offering a jaunty wave. Then, with a motormouth born of adrenaline, she rattled off her purpose. "We got an order from Xu. I'm supposed to deliver a message to your squad leader. That's Seifer, right? Where is he?"

"Whoa, slow down," Zell insisted, raising his palms. "What do you have to tell him? And how did you find us?"

She gave a sly smile, her emerald irises twinkling. "Xu is more informed than you guys think."

" _Which means she knows you violated orders,"_ came Ifrit's pestering.

 _I'll deal with that later._ Squall vehemently refused to entertain the notion right now.

"Where _is_ Seifer?" repeated the Squad A envoy. "This is super important!"

Squall shrugged and gestured down towards the slain soldiers by the entrance to the structure. The sociopathic swordsman loomed over their bodies, prodding them perversely with the edge of Hyperion, and displaying a sense of pride that was unbefitting of the circumstances. They had not stood a chance against him.

Turning his attention momentarily to his peers, Seifer grinned cockily, calling up to them before storming forward and disappearing into the darkness beyond the automatic doors. "One day, Squall, I'll tell you about my romantic dream!"

"How do you even put up with this guy?" the Trabian student queried in bemusement.

 _You have no idea_ …

Selphie, for her part, took the situation in her stride. She swiftly assessed the plateaued clearing at the base of the Communications Tower, shuffling to the outcrop's ledge to calculate the drop. Murmuring something inaudible, she motioned for the boys to get out of her way, then propelled herself from the overhang. It was hardly a graceful demonstration of acrobatics, and she required a few exaggerated steps after landing to control her momentum, but she managed to stay on her feet this time. Squall had been wondering why Xu would send her by herself through monster-infested mountains, but then he recalled her specialty.

 _Indirect Magic Operative_ _; in_ _other words, an expert at magical protection. She's tougher than she seems._

Squall exchanged an approving look with Zell. "Let's go."

"You're not gonna jump, too?"

 _Why not?_

"Take the long way if you want," said Squall, holstering his gunblade and preparing to leap.

"I'd never hear the end of it," Zell grumbled.

Squall hit the ground hard but remained upright; Zell's footing betrayed him. Fortunately, years of martial arts training had taught him to roll, and the worst of the damage was tearing the fabric of his pants. Selphie helped him up, and the trio approached the doorway, their weapons drawn.

"Y'know, you could always just tell _us_ ," Zell suggested, ignoring the pool of blood shaping beneath the nearest infantryman. "The message, I mean."

Selphie hesitated at the proposal, biting her lip, then decided to humor her comrade. "Colonel Xu wants us to withdraw. I'm to alert you immediately. Evac is in less than an hour. But, I don't know what to do if Seifer's likely to cause a scene."

"Damn him," Zell cursed, swinging a fist in frustration. "Can't we just leave him here?"

 _No-one gets left behind_. _Even Seifer should get the heads up on a withdraw order. And it won't look too good on our evaluations if we return without the squad leader._

"We're going in after him," Squall affirmed.

Zell hung his head. "Sure, let's ride this train all the way to the end of the line…"

The interior of the facility's primary access point was dim and cold, a cylindrical behemoth illuminated only by an unsettling blue glow from the surrounding displays. About them, myriad sensors and digital monitors gave the impression of being in a kaleidoscope of forgotten technology. Floor upon floor of metal grills and turbines provided ventilation to the vaults beneath them, and Squall spotted a number of power converters with thick, insulated wires snaking off numerous generators.

Despite the wealth of energy that could be channeled here, the only apparatus in operation was a backup generator which ran on petrol. Even with the ventilation ducts nearby, the pungent fumes permeated the air.

"The G-Army must be relying on that to prevent us remotely cutting the power," Zell deduced.

"I sure hope we don't pass out," Selphie gagged, using a hand to cover her nose and mouth.

Seifer was nowhere to be seen, but the crumpled figures of the sergeant and the private revealed his recent presence. Towards the far wall was a column that appeared to scale the tower, complete with the embedded ladder of a platform lift. The vacant space at the bottom indicated that the elevator was already in use.

"He must have gone up," said Squall, squinting in the gloom. "Where are the controls?"

Trotting over to the pillar, Zell investigated a rectangular panel sticking out of the left side, pushing the largest button. An LED on the box began to blink, and there was a _whir_ of activity somewhere high above. As they waited, Squall noticed the blond gearhead ogling the computer terminals a few feet away, admiring the outdated interfaces they boasted.

"I really wish we had a few hours to kill here," Zell whined, as pathetic as a kid at a toy shop window. "The things I could learn…"

"We still have a mission," Squall reminded him firmly, keeping the cadet from losing focus. Their lives might depend on it. Squall cast his eyes down to the etching of Griever on his blade, hoping to summon some of the lion's strength.

 _I have a feeling this is about to get very ugly_ …


	17. Chapter 15

**Chapter XV**

Major Biggs had _volunteered_ for this assignment. Throughout the occupation, he had made a point to routinely remind himself that he had stuck his neck out for the opportunity to gain a little renown. Considering how the day's events had gone, it had been an absolute waste of time. He now stood atop a derelict transmission station doing menial labor, commanding a motley crew of the Army's most incompetent. His scarlet uniform was covered in soot, his gun-arm was in dire need of cleaning, and his latent fear of heights was threatening to paralyze him every time he looked away from his work.

The top level of the Communications Tower was a mesh of grated platforms encircling the neck of the main satellite shaft. Presently, the gargantuan dish was compactly nestled in the maintenance well at the heart of the central column. A rusted frame surrounded the neck to secure the transceiver when it was in operation, doubling as a convenient barrier to prevent some fool accidentally falling in.

On the south side of the deck was a hulking terminal, acting as both a network control module and a secured plinth for one of the three smaller aerials. It was robust and pyramid-like in shape, armored by a protective shell and alive with bright green LEDs. A web of cables branched out from underneath, snaking across the platform to connect each of the receivers to the principal antenna.

 _I should've applied for the assignment aboard President Deling's train_ , Biggs brooded, continuing to enter very precise instructions into the module.

Despite the facility being half a century old, Dollet had managed to keep most of the computer equipment up-to-date, at least until the radio blackout. Nevertheless, seventeen years was an eternity in the technological world. The Galbadian Army had trained him to operate anything, but also conditioned him to expect the best of everything.

The fact that his standard-issue multi-tool could barely unscrew the cover panel of this relic was just the tip of the iceberg.

The software was an inelegant mess, and HQ didn't possess a record of the source code. The parts may once have been labeled, but damp and decay had faded the writing. It had taken him almost twenty minutes to jerry-rig a contraption to provide emergency power to the terminal; that was despite the generator being online. If it was not for his personal tablet doing the lion's share of the calculations for him, he would be pulling the last few strands of his hair out.

Behind him, he thought he heard the _whir_ of the access elevator. He glanced over his shoulder but detected no sign of movement through his visor.

 _Probably just the wind_ …

The gusts at this altitude gave a slight chill to the air, contrary to the warmth of the evening and summer's imminent onset. Biggs would much rather be on steady ground, even if it meant sweltering in the poorly ventilated streets of the archaic city. He tried to find comfort in the majestic vista, but it held no beauty for him. All it did was remind him of how far he was from home.

The bleak mountains were an eyesore compared to the rolling green of the Great Plains of Galbadia, and the tranquil sea was alien to one who grew up in the landlocked prairies. Then there were the outlying wards of Dollet, with their cramped, tasteless buildings packed oppressively tight. Even the celebrated architecture of the Historic Quarter's landmarks was attributed to the Centra Empire rather than the indigenous population.

It was nothing like Deling City.

Major Biggs had been away from his beloved metropolis much longer than planned. He missed his late-night patrols amid the buzzing lamplit streets and lazily winding avenues of the Presidential District. His four-year tour in the troublesome Timber region had been a few months shy of completion, and he could have chosen to see out his career comfortably. But, instead, he had foolishly decided to take one last stab at making Colonel.

 _And this is what it's come to:_ _Battling_ _obsolete technology and trying not to get killed by those Garden freaks._

"Sir!" came the eager voice of Lieutenant Wedge, as it had too many times already that afternoon.

The navy-clad junior officer was a head shorter than Biggs and about half his age to boot, with all the raw enthusiasm of a puppy. He was by no means the worst kid the major had ever been paired with, but beneath his chrome helmet was a whole lot of empty space. The gunblade at Wedge's hip was also as pristine as any Biggs had ever known; the absence of wear, tear and rust was testament to the wielder's inexperience and the weapon's lack of use.

"What is it?" the commander asked, stabbing impatiently at the buttons on his datapad.

 _I'm in the middle of the most crucial part of the exchange process and_ now _the greenhorn wants a chat._

"I was inspecting the maintenance well…" Wedge began, gulping as he stood to attention.

Biggs stopped tapping for a moment. "What about it? We're getting ready to power up here."

"It's, um… I think there's something down there," the lieutenant reported hesitantly. Realizing how vague this sounded, he quickly elaborated. "Something big."

Biggs let out a calculated sigh, intended to make the kid appreciate his utter stupidity. On the surface, Wedge was the kind of awe-inspiring poster boy that each cadet in Galbadia's Officer Training Program strived to become. The old man supposed he had been the same way once, back when the idea of wearing just the twin bars of a captain seemed like an impossible dream. But a soldier either figured out the way of things, or they washed out after their four years of service and lived off an undeserved officer's pension.

In a way, being a pain in the ass was good for Wedge. It helped ensure he learned fast and kept his toes in line. As a serendipitous bonus, being a conduit for this particular brand of tough love was also an excellent form of stress relief for the overworked major.

"Let me make this clear, _Lieutenant._ " Biggs deliberately emphasized the rank difference between the two. "Reporting on 'something' doesn't assist me. Whatever is there will be moved as soon as we activate the satellite anyway, so unless you believe it's an obstruction, I don't need to know about it. For Hyne's sake, I never had these problems with Lieutenant Jessie."

"Sir, it might be one of the local monsters," Wedge contended, almost apologetically. "You saw what those anacondaurs did to the Dollet troops. This tower hasn't been in operation for well over a decade. Maybe one's made a nest? I really think we should check it out, or perhaps call for reinforcements–"

" _Backup_?" the senior officer barked. "Rookie, we are part of a covert twelve-man squad sent up here to get this scrap heap functioning. The rest of our forces in the area are combating _actual_ threats. Remnants of Dollet's resistance are a moot point, but SeeD has apparently been deployed."

" _SeeD_?" Wedge spluttered. " _Here_?"

Biggs had only heard rumors about the superhuman brutes Balamb Garden pumped out. The exact details of their abilities were unclear, but a range of explanations from genetic modification to magical augmentation had been alleged. All that was known was that these mercenaries were one-man armies in their own right, and now an entire unit of them had apparently landed in the city.

"So, tell me again," Biggs challenged, driving home his reprimand. "You want me to signal for backup because you may or may not have seen a shadow?"

"N-no, sir." Wedge shook his head vigorously.

In the same instant, the major's tablet began to _bleep_ , and flashing red text appeared on the control terminal's digital display. A tidal wave of rage flooded his veins, and it required every last ounce of his patience not to aim the semi-automatic firearm of his weaponized uniform in its direction.

"You really want to do something useful, rookie?" snarled Biggs, shoving the kid towards the module's keyboard. "Fix this damn thing!"

"But… I…"

The commander slammed his gun-arm against the armored shell of the plinth. "No pay for you this month."

Wedge did not argue any further, swiftly composing himself to examine the coding. Mumbling under his breath, he glanced rapidly back and forth between the screen and the instruction manual. After a minute or so, he tentatively motioned to a line of characters where the syntax was badly formatted.

"Sir, I…" he carefully selected his words, shirking from his looming superior. "I think this is wrong."

 _Best not to acknowledge my mistake_ …

"That was just a test, son," Biggs lied, stepping back. "You passed. Barely. Now, get out of my sight unless you have any evidence of this monster of yours."

Wedge saluted him clumsily. "Right away, sir!"

The underling scurried off, resuming his inspection and – more importantly – leaving the major to correct his error. Though he might never admit it, Biggs was grateful that the modification was easily identified and relatively painless to tweak. Wedge would go far in his evaluations and, if he hung around the old man for a while, even had the potential to turn into a decent soldier.

A congratulatory alert chimed on Biggs' datapad. With a satisfied grin, he activated the final phase of the facility's reawakening. Screeds and screeds of code raced down the control monitor before him, and the crackle of electricity began to resonate from the wires underfoot. The entire service deck shuddered, followed by a deafening cacophony of _beeps_ on the terminal and a dizzying rush of air from the core of the Communications Tower.

Something big was rocketing up the construct's central shaft.

With the metal grating rattling around him, Biggs watched helplessly as his multi-tool slipped between the beams and plunged towards the ocean below, clanging horribly as it struck every surface it could on its way down. One by one, the beacons dotted across the neck of the shaft sputtered into life, blinking systematically around the frame.

Gripping a steel strut at his side for support, Biggs watched an enormous cylinder shoot from the cavity, forty feet tall and fifteen in diameter. It screeched to a halt at the apex of its ascent, electrical currents rippling across its steel face. The rumbling subsided for a few seconds, only to be replaced by a whirring sound from within the vast mechanism as it repositioned itself to a thirty-degree angle.

Blooming like a flower, the panels of the apparatus detached as a triad of curved prongs, and from these slid thin metal sheets that converged to form the largest satellite dish the major had ever seen. At its epicenter was a complex arrangement of antennae that extended into a single transceiver, reacting immediately to the radio static.

Biggs felt a sense of achievement; for the first time in seventeen years, the Communications Tower was operational. It was at that very moment, however, that three teenagers emerged from the access elevator.


	18. Chapter 16

**Chapter XVI**

The panoramic vista of the Violet Mountains against the sunset's vibrant rays was a spectacular sight, but its significance somewhat paled in comparison to the activation of the satellite dish. Squall had gripped the railings of the platform lift as a monumental surge of energy tore through the Communications Tower, fearing he, Zell and Selphie would be thrown into the dark chasm of the construct's interior. They had surfaced moments later onto the control deck, in time to witness an event few of their generation ever had.

 _Are they attempting a radio transmission…?_

As the enormous dish unfolded and reconfigured above their heads, Squall noticed a helmeted soldier in scarlet manipulating the code at a large, computerized terminal a short way from the elevator. A major, by the look of the three gold bars on his shoulder pauldrons; one of the Galbadian Army's officers, a class that typically posed more of a challenge.

His belt and boots, Squall knew, were equipped with an array of nodes that generated a faint anti-magic barrier, an arcane invention developed by the genius Dr. Odine during the Sorceress War. The armored casing around his arms also incorporated semi-automatic rifles, adding a significant degree of offensive clout. While these elites were far from invincible, they would not fall as easily as standard infantry. The cadet reached for his weapon, hoping to take out the threat before he spotted them.

 _Doubt those gadgets can do anything against the steel of a gunblade._

A flash of movement to his right seized Squall's attention, and he glanced over to see Seifer concealed behind a power transformer. The two locked eyes, and the captain put his finger to his lips, then made a "ready when you are" motion. It occurred to Squall that while the opportunity to stop the enemy's plans may have passed, Squad B could still salvage something from their failure, such as extracting information from the major. Seifer, though, appeared to be preparing for a swift kill.

As Squall's fingers tightened around Revolver's hilt, the officer turned towards the trio in the lift. Of the features visible below his chrome helmet, his expression was initially one of panic, but this quickly changed when he registered the cadet uniforms they wore. A sly smirk crossed the older man's lips; he would not be intimidated by a group of teenage SeeD candidates.

"What do you think you're doing?" Squall shouted, nodding towards the antenna.

"I could ask you the same thing, _Mister_ ," the major retorted, his sneer fading as he was struck by a sudden realization. "Wait a minute, where's the rest of my unit?"

"They won't be joining us." Selphie shrugged, the gesture seeming simultaneously nonchalant and hostile.

The Galbadian officer let out a piteous growl, then began to call for reinforcements. "Wedge! Take care of these twerps!"

There came no response. The adversary's gaze darted back and forth across the control platform, but the glowing lights of the framework revealed no sign of his comrade. Squall watched him like a hawk, wary of potential trickery, and the major dropped the bravado when nobody came to his rescue.

"Uh, w-well," he stammered, raising his left gun-arm in their direction, a sense of desperation creeping into his voice, "I'm done here, anyway. So, I'll... I'll just be going."

With his weapon still locked onto the teens, the officer shuffled sideways like a crab, stepping over the assortment of wires protruding from the terminal. They made no attempt to prevent his escape to nowhere in particular, watching casually as he waddled right into Seifer's path. Rising from his hiding spot, the captain swung Hyperion with deadly accuracy, slicing cleanly through the barrel to disable the firearm.

 _Perhaps he's not just an executioner after all_ …

"Are you crazy?" screamed the Galbadian, gaping at the pitiful stump.

"Shut up!" Seifer hissed, slowly advancing on him.

"What do you want with me?" he asked, stumbling back against the control panel.

"Why have you restarted the radio transceiver?" Seifer demanded, holding his blade to the major's throat. "What's Galbadia's endgame?"

Despite his cowardly demeanor, the man began to mouth off. "You think I'd actually _tell_ you brats?"

"Doing grunt work yourself?" Zell mocked him in response, wandering over to the terminal to examine the components. "This thing doesn't look so complicated."

"It's an antique, kid," he defended himself, trying to retain a sliver of pride. "Any hotheaded rookie could easily short-circuit the entire thing. That's why they put _me_ in charge of it."

"You're a better technician than you are a soldier," Selphie observed absent-mindedly.

The veteran's lip curled in a grimace, but he held his silence; the situation was doubtlessly rather humiliating.

 _You should have retired, old-timer._

"I guess you have nothing we need, then," Squad B's leader remarked, pressing Hyperion harder into the enemy's flesh.

"Whoa, Seifer, hang on!" Zell interjected.

The captain exhaled deeply, casting his eyes towards his comrade with a bored expression. It was the kind of disinterested contempt that implied he knew somebody was going to mess this up for him _._ The blond swordsman lowered his gunblade but kept it at the ready.

"Haven't we had this conversation already?"

"He's _unarmed_!" Zell insisted.

"The Galbadians sure didn't take any prisoners," Seifer reminded him. "Why should we give _them_ any quarter?"

" _That's not justice_ ," counseled Ifrit, his input more reasoned and philosophical than expected. " _It's revenge."_

The GF was right, of course, and Squall had been conscious of it since the moment his rival Saber had threatened the major. To hear someone else sharing that view – even the demonic Ifrit – forced him to take a stand, and he put himself between Seifer and the officer. "I'm with Zell on this one."

"What now, treason?" Seifer snorted, narrowing his gaze.

Before the argument could go any further, a steel hatch on the ground nearby clattered open, and a sky-blue-clad lieutenant emerged from the height of a ladder. At a glance, the rungs seemed to vanish into the shaft from which the primary satellite dish had extended. He was identifiable as a junior officer by the clumsy way he handled himself, not looking up until after he had fully clambered onto the service deck.

" _Wedge_!" yelled the cadets' detainee. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Major Biggs!" replied the would-be rescuer, his voice laden with alarm. "We have to go–"

It took a split second for the lieutenant to realize the problem he was about to present was not necessarily the most immediate priority. Hyperion was now aimed squarely at the newcomer's jugular.

"Oh," Wedge squeaked, raising his palms in pathetic surrender. "Please, don't kill me."

"Why do you have to go?" Squall enquired, not letting the prior issue slip the soldier's mind.

"There was… a fiend. In the well," stammered Wedge. "And when the major got the aerial working, he kinda pissed it off."

The thunderous buzz of the electricity running through the main column of the Communications Tower had muted all external noise, creating a strange bubble of silence on the service deck. And yet, a terrible sound was growing steadily closer, drowning out their exchange. It was a subtle echo at first, reaching a crescendo before Squall could make it out: A rhythmic beating from somewhere below.

 _Wings!_

"Lieutenant, did you signal for backup?" Biggs asked hopefully.

"You told me not to!" the younger man answered in dismay.

"And _now_ you decide to listen to me?" he barked. "No pay for you next month, either!"

"Shut up, gramps!" Seifer interrupted angrily.

An ear-splitting shriek suddenly pierced the air. It was an inhuman cry that penetrated Squall's brain and caused Selphie to drop to her knees in pain. He managed to peer up as a large, shadowy shape careened through a section of the rusted frame supporting the satellite dish. The monstrosity hovered ominously overhead for a second before spreading its bat-like wings and diving towards them.

"What the _hell_?" Zell gasped.

In its descent, the foul creature summoned a blast of wind that knocked all of them to the floor. Squall's heart raced as he gripped a nearby cable, very conscious that if he lost his footing, there was absolutely nothingto keep him from plummeting to his death. Through the grating, he caught a glimpse of the waves crashing against the cliffs below, beckoning him like the song of Siren herself. He would rather be anywhere but here, but he was not planning on taking the express route.

The beast swept between the six, screeching as it went, passing close enough for Squall to get a good look at it. It had a humanoid torso, complete with gangly, clawed arms and withered ribs, but its lower half converged to form a massive stinger. The great wings were a bright violet color, blackened slightly with accumulated grime, while its horned head was a demonic caricature of mankind: Eyes wide and blood-red, nose hooked and shriveled, and an unnaturally elongated jaw. It stank of decay, the purple tint to its body giving the impression of a bloated corpse.

Riding the coastal gusts, the fiend was suspended on the air above the group, keeping them well within striking distance of its talons. Squall and Seifer were behind it, near the control terminal; Zell and Selphie were on their knees further back on the deck; Biggs was helping Wedge to his feet directly beneath it. The Galbadians were unaware that the scarlet uniform of the major had attracted the brute's interest, and were incapable of defending themselves as it swung a battering ram of a fist at them. The duo slammed into a support strut with a horrible crunch and were knocked out cold.

 _At least they won't be hindering us_ , Squall thought morbidly.

"We gonna kill this thing or what?" Seifer shouted with perverse glee, standing and brandishing Hyperion.

"Captain, we have a withdraw order," Selphie informed him.

"We're going nowhere," he countermanded, the tails of his trenchcoat flapping wildly at his heels. "We won't get out alive with this guy in pursuit."

Heeding Seifer's warning, Squall grabbed his own gunblade, shaking off his initial fear and burying his emotions once more. He knew what this was: An elvoret, which translated to "purple wings" in the old Centran tongue. It was a monster species his class had learned about in their study of the Lunar Cry that destroyed Centra. As notorious as they were for utterly devastating human habitats, this one was clearly malnourished, having perhaps gone years without eating, and its long sleep in the maintenance shaft had drained its strength.

 _We have a chance._

Lunging forward, the elvoret slashed at Squall with its enormous claws, but he was able to throw himself to the ground just in time.

"I got this one!" Zell yelled, unleashing bolts of lightning para-magic.

It had no effect whatsoever, and the behemoth rewarded his effort with a jarring flurry of swipes, forcing he and Selphie to scramble for shelter. The strikes ripped entire metal plates from their position, scarring the platform and exposing the sheer drop, but the structure remained intact.

"It's toying with us!" cautioned Seifer, hurling a signature fireball.

To his credit, the elvoret most certainly felt the attack but appeared to be more enraged than injured. The disfigured wretch breathed another gale from its mouth, pushing Seifer to the very brink of the deck. Squall reached out, but the squad leader caught himself, digging his blade into the steelwork to secure his balance.

"Planning on doing something, Squall?" he snarled.

Squall tried to focus his mind. Ifrit might have some idea how to get out of this but, for the first time since he had junctioned the flame jinn, he was silent.

 _He's testing me. He wants to see how I handle this._

The elvoret swooped low, digging its stinger into the gratings as it stabbed at Squall again. It was attempting to split the party up, indicating a high degree of intelligence. Even so, the floating menace had left itself vulnerable to Zell's swift counterattack. The pugilist delivered a barrage of punches to its midsection, but a desperate backhand knocked him into Selphie's waiting arms.

"Zell, I need you to do exactly as I say!" the transfer student cried over the noise.

Before Squall could hear what her plan was, another intense gust consumed him, the elvoret's lungs contracting rapidly as it tried to neutralize its foes. Seifer was still clinging to his entrenched weapon, precariously close to the verge, but his grip was loosening with each new blast. Squall extended his hand again, but his rival could not – or would not – accept it.

The winged fiend turned to Selphie who had drawn its attention with an impressive ice spell. Holding her nunchaku aloft, she began to rhythmically spin them.

 _What is she doing?_

The elvoret's chest expanded with the pressure of a titanic inhalation, preparing to deliver its finishing blow. It had grown tired of its toys.

Picking his moment, Zell darted over to his comrades and crouched low, bracing himself against the control panel. Seifer hugged his saber tight, and Squall knelt at his side.

"What is going on?" Squall called.

"Just duck and cover!" Zell grinned, cradling his head. "You'll see…"

There was another hideous shriek as the creature expelled its stored-up breath, its incredible force quaking the air. The fury of a tempest came at them, then stopped abruptly. The three boys felt little more than a cool zephyr sail through their hair, the main storm cascading across a translucent sphere of energy that surrounded themselves and the Galbadians. Selphie gritted her teeth as she strained against the gale and, when the winds finally dissipated, she collapsed to her knees, exhausted from the charm.

Squall had to act now. If para-magic was having a limited effect, maybe the answer was steel.

In a flourish of silver, Squall plunged Revolver into the foe's stinger. With a twist of his blade, he ripped the appendage out of the elvoret's lower half in a gory display of black blood and foul-smelling sinew. The grotesque spray coated Squall's face and jacket, leaving him reeking of rotting meat. Much like a dying bee, the monster crashed onto its back, its arms flailing and its wings useless. It writhed in mortal agony, letting out a wailing rasp as its lungs tried futilely to inflate.

The image of the Dollet Peacekeeper they had failed to save flashed in Squall's mind. _Put it aside. You don't have time to deal with that right now._

With a scoff, Seifer wrenched his sword from the metal and dragged it along the grates towards the abomination. The beast wheezed one last pathetic puff of wind that did not so much as ruffle the captain's collar. An instant later, Hyperion was in its throat, and the elvoret perished.

"Awesome work, Selphie!" Zell exclaimed, patting the girl's shoulder and helping her up.

Seifer glanced pensively towards the Galbadian officers, but decided that killing an unconscious enemy was a line he would not cross. Or perhaps he did not find it as much fun. He seemed deflated somehow; his contribution to the fight had been little more than that of an executioner after all, and it was damaging his pride. As if seeking an outlet for his aggression, he pointed an accusing finger at Selphie, like this entire ordeal was her fault.

"What was that about a withdraw order, newbie?" he growled.

"We've to regroup at Lapin Beach," Selphie announced, unperturbed by his hardened stare. "All SeeD candidates are to withdraw from the city by 2100 hours."

Squall, who had been struggling to scrape the fleshy pulp off himself, checked his watch, hopelessness hitting him like a punch to the gut. But it was Zell who once again voiced concern on behalf of the group. "That's only thirty minutes from now! We'll never make it in time!"

"We will if we run," Squall replied determinedly. "Come on, let's go."

In a whirlwind of movement, Seifer rushed over to the platform lift and hammered its controls with his fist. He tried to grin cockily as he descended without them, but there was a noticeable tremble on his jaw. His usual arrogant posture melted the further down the shaft he went; Seifer was panicking, but he would never admit it to them.

"Damn him," Zell cursed, ramming his knuckles into the call button.

" _That_ guy is your squad leader?" Selphie asked incredulously.

"We should never have come here," Zell moaned, his shoulders slumped. "We're going to fail the exam for sure!"

 _It's too late to worry about that_.

"We haven't failed yet," said Squall, slotting his gunblade into its holster on his hip and running his fingers over the Griever carving at its hilt. "Come on, we don't have any time to waste."


	19. Chapter 17

**Chapter XVII**

The grinding _whir_ of the elevator's pulley stirred Biggs. He craned his neck in the direction of the noise but was unable to see anything. For a moment, dread coursed through his veins when he thought he had been blinded, but his clouded mind quickly realized the filtered feed on his visor was fried from the impact. He ripped the useless contraption off his head and took in the scene with his own eyes.

The service deck was in a chaotic state. For starters, the control module on the terminal was battered but still barely functioning. Beneath him, the steel grating was shredded from claws and blades; a few panels were uncomfortably loose. Most of his tools were scattered or missing, presumably knocked into the sea far below. A series of beacons were dark where the winged monster had burst from the support frame, but at least the structural integrity of the satellite dish was intact. The fiend's corpse was sprawled several feet away, the fleshy pulp of its severed stinger a ghastly sight.

In short, the place was a mess, and he would be the one expected to answer for it.

There was a fire in the major's belly from humiliation, and an unbearable ache consumed the rest. Examining himself as best he could, he did not identify any broken bones, but his abdomen would be one massive bruise by tomorrow. He slowly crawled towards the module, trying to reach his tablet.

A sharp intake of breath, followed by a pained wheezing, caught Biggs' attention. The lieutenant had not landed far from him, but whatever he had hit was sharp. The rookie's uniform was ripped, and the visible portion of his thigh was oozing blood. The cut was deep and in a bad spot.

"Wedge?" Biggs spat out, his voice hollow and raspy.

The junior did not respond to his call, so he dragged himself closer. There was nobody coming for them. Their team and chain of command alone had known of this covert assignment, and no reinforcements had shown up during the battle.

 _The only way those kids could have made it this far is if…_

Biggs hung his head low. His other troops were either dead or dying, and he would avenge them if it was the last thing he did. He reached into his utility belt and pulled out an ampoule, labeled in stenciled letters with the word "Potion+". The glass vial contained a shot of the Galbadian Army's unique healing formula, alleged to be manufactured in the laboratories of a remote deep sea research center. The senior officer poured the sweet-smelling cyan liquid on the boy's wound before bandaging it in fabric torn from his own uniform.

"Lieutenant," Biggs called, slapping his shoulder to try and rouse him. "You okay?"

A moment passed in silence. Under ideal circumstances, the effects of the medicine kicked in fairly fast, but each passing second felt like an eternity. The major turned his eyes to the control panel. In the fading light of day, its glowing blue display appeared even brighter, depicting a basic three-dimensional representation of the transceiver. Despite the cost, his mission had at least been successful.

Wedge's body suddenly twitched, then sank back into its immobilized state. If he could not come to on his own, he would need to be evacuated.

Leaving his comrade's side, Biggs resumed his effort to retrieve his datapad. He considered the possibility of hooking it up to the HD Cable line and sending an emergency message. Staggering through the wreckage, the pain in his ribs and stomach grew worse. He pushed on, though; the rookie needed the medicine more than he did.

The tablet was still working, and the HD Cable connection seemed active. With a few keystrokes, he was able to access the G-Army emergency beacon, which now pulsed through the network, alerting all allied forces in range of their location. Help was on its way.

"M-major," came a whimper from behind.

Biggs turned as the maimed lieutenant rolled onto his side, unable even to sit up. He shook in suppressed agony, a hand clutching his thigh injury.

"C-can't... see," Wedge groaned, fumbling to remove his visor.

"Take it easy," the veteran instructed, sliding over to aid him. "We're gonna get an evac trooper out here."

The chrome exterior of his helmet was cracked, and shards of the visor were stuck in Wedge's brow, yet they managed to ease it off. The young officer was in poor shape, but he was going to live.

A _beep_ from the handheld device distracted the major, and he scanned the unusually quick response.

"An extraction team is incoming," Biggs read, sighing with relief. "Roughly thirty minutes. They'll get us out safely."

"Sir," Wedge grunted, a sincere glint in his eyes. "Sorry I wasn't there when you needed me."

 _I'm sorry you were here at all._

"Don't worry about it, kid," Biggs said.

He was not sure why getting the tower operational was so important, but he had theories. The great nation would soon be making a declaration to the entire world, radio blackout be damned. The experienced soldier had accomplished what he had set out to do, but the men in his squad were now casualties of war. Dead or injured, it made little difference to Galbadia; twelve souls could no longer fight. President Deling was not forgiving of failure; Wedge would learn that lesson soon enough.

Sorrow gave way to rage, and Biggs slammed his fist into the ground in anguish. A loose grate rattled beneath him and fell away, causing some insect under the deck to skitter off.

That was when the major remembered his contingency plan.

The war machine was not technically field-ready yet. It was being refitted for use as an automated defense for the tower after the G-Army vacated. But, he had not counted on the SeeD brats following him, and he was all out of options. Perhaps if they were unable to report what they had witnessed of the operation's finer details, Biggs' career could be salvaged.

It was time to see if that three-ton hunk of military tech was worth anything. These cadets had slain an incredibly dangerous monster, so their strength was commendable. However, nothing was as relentless as Galbadian robotics.

He typed the commands on his tablet: A set of simple code instructions he had memorized but not expected to use so soon. The green characters lit up the dark screen before him, preparing to feed his orders to the creation's artificial intelligence:

 _POWER ONLINE_

 _UNIT MODEL: X-ATM092_

 _BIOS BOOTUP_

 _ASSIGN TARGETS_

"Those little twerps are the target," the officer growled, punching in the relevant data.

There was a loud clanging, and the entire service deck shuddered. Fifty feet below, the weapon slowly moved from its concealed position on the exterior of the maintenance shaft, hidden from the mountainside. Biggs peered down at the colossal spider crab as it scanned Siren's Peak using its array of dated sensors.

"W-what's that… noise?" Wedge gulped, yielding to another coughing fit.

"The Black Widow," his superior replied, collapsing to his knees.

In truth, he was not entirely confident about his idea. The machine's programming was a sophisticated but clunky collection of subroutines stitched into an old shell and a fragile-at-best AI. There were newer models utilized by the army with much tighter coding and more precise engineering, yet HQ had opted not to part with them for this assignment. The automaton had been a prototype, but what it lacked in polish it made up for in tenacity and destructive power. Even without its completed refurbishment, the robotic arachnid could hold its own against the most formidable of foes, sporting a chain gun, a range of lasers, and a built-in ray bomb.

It would not cease pursuing a target until they were eliminated, which was good enough for him.

A series of electronic _beeps_ indicated the Black Widow was activated and poised to strike. Biggs looked to Wedge, as if for approval, but the boy had once again passed out from exhaustion. The relief of unconsciousness was beginning to tempt the old man as well.

"Now, go," he ordered the X-ATM092, keying in the final command. "Go and destroy them!"


	20. Chapter 18

**Chapter XVIII**

The SeeD candidates hurtled out onto the cliffside plateau at the base of the Communications Tower and took a moment to get their bearings. Squall, for his part, was just grateful to be back on solid ground after the unsteady ride on the lift. The daylight was dying and the wind on the peak was picking up again, stinging his face with an alpine chill.

 _And Seifer's nowhere in sight_ …

Squall considered their options, and none seemed particularly promising. Dollet was so far, but then it was always faster to descend than climb. They would need to sprint the entire way down the mountain trail and through the wrecked city to have any prospect of catching the _Bismarcks_ , lest they be abandoned on Lapin Beach. There was no time to plan; they had to get moving.

"Listen up," Squall found himself saying.

 _Don't think, just do your duty!_

"I'm taking point," he commanded, the unexpected words coming effortlessly to his lips. "You two follow me and keep pace. We halt for nothing, understood?"

Zell gave a single nod; he was not about to argue, nor did he intend to propose he was a natural leader. Selphie was far more direct on the matter, locking her heels and offering Squall a cheeky salute.

"As if you had to ask, _sir_ ," she quipped.

Before he could respond, there was an explosion of noise behind him; a deafening _crunch_ of metal on stone that left him temporarily disoriented. Something massive had dropped from above. The earth quaked and rocks scattered around the three, covering them in a shroud of dust.

Squall pivoted towards the source of the clamor, his heart stopping as he gazed upon a nightmarish contraption of Galbadian design. Its enormous silver chassis was crablike in shape, with two pincers at its front and held upright on four spiked legs. A multitude of sensors flashed like neon-red eyes at the fore of its heavily armored body, accompanied by a devastating arsenal of weaponry. Grey lettering identified it by both name and serial number: X-ATM092, Black Widow.

Zell and Selphie had been positioned nearest to the automaton when it landed and were attempting to recover from the impact. The war machine emitted a horrific sound as it scanned the cadets, like the screams of a thousand robots being ground together. Then, in the unwholesomely soulless voice employed by all Galbadian AI technology, it made an announcement.

"Targets acquired."

" _Squall_?" Zell spluttered, coughing out dirt.

"Forget it!" Squall shouted, grabbing Selphie's arm and yanking her to her feet. "Just run!"

The quartet of cylindrical engines on the Black Widow's spine whirred into life, and its limbs took slow, deliberate strides as it warmed up.

Racing towards the twisting track that would take them back to the lookout point, the teens were able to create a bit of distance between themselves and the automaton, but their hunter rapidly increased its pace.

As they arrived at the outcrop, the X-ATM092 hastily changed direction on the plateau and extended its legs to hoist itself up onto the elevated shelf, crashing through the boulders they had earlier used for cover. The shattered stone became improvised ballistics, bombarding the fleeing party. Selphie yelped under the onslaught while several small shards struck Squall on the shoulder, but he could not focus on the pain right now.

To avoid the giant spider crab crushing him, Zell leapt forward, his resultant tumble taking him dangerously close to the precipice. The pugilist would have disappeared down the treacherous mountainside were it not for Squall's swift reaction. Reaching out, he caught Zell's flailing leg and prevented him from pitching over the edge.

 _That was too close…_

"Keep moving!" Squall yelled.

They continued quickly down the long, winding path, the sporadic corpses of Dollet Peacekeepers forcing the trio to dip and weave. Each time the Black Widow decelerated to navigate a difficult bend, it opened fire on the cadets. Bullets whipped past their heads, ricocheting off the rocky overhangs around them. Their flight was chaotic, and the arachnid was in hot pursuit the entire way.

However, as deadly as the robot might have been, its objective was significantly hindered by the terrain. It presented the students with a glimmer of hope that they might yet make it out alive, as did the welcoming sight of the Garden assault boats still moored at the beach.

Somehow, they made it down into the foothills mostly unscathed, but came to a switchback that was too sharp and narrow to take at speed. Carefully negotiating the route, the three sought urgent shelter as scree showered them from above, displaced by the assailant skidding to a halt. There was an unsettling silence for a moment, then the mind-piercing electrical shriek of the metal creature's scanners resonated again, this time echoing off the walls of the ravines in a chilling cacophony.

Watching the X-ATM092 hesitating on a ledge a short distance up the trail, Squall realized it was stuck and reconsidering a course that would allow its bulk to pass. He was tensely aware of the seconds ticking away, so he seized the opportunity to urge his comrades to run, knowing their reprieve from the automaton would not last long.

The trio vaulted the final staircase, their muscles burning and lungs bursting. As they spotted the bridge to the city ahead, Squall heard a familiar hiss as another ravenous anacondaur pounced from its nest in the malgo bushes. The Saber dove out of the way of its fanged maw, and the serpent paid the price for its poorly planned attack.

As the slithering monster prepared to lunge at him again, the Black Widow soared overhead in an impossibly agile spring, slamming hard into the steps behind them. Showing no acknowledgement of the fiend's existence, the X-ATM092 trampled the anacondaur, gouging wide chunks from its flesh.

 _It's not going to give up,_ Squall deduced. He had anticipated the extent of the threat they faced but had not expected so visceral a demonstration.

The crab reared up on its hind legs and stabbed at Zell with one of its spiked limbs. It missed by a hair's breadth, clumsily embedding the appendage in the hillside. As it fought to free itself, the teens retreated hurriedly onto the viaduct.

They were so close now; the Black Widow was fast, but it was broad, and Dollet's streets and alleys were narrow. On that battlefield, the cadets would at least have a fighting chance of survival.

 _What we do in the next fifteen minutes doesn't just mean pass or fail, it means life or death_ …

Yet, what they knew of the avenues' strategic advantages, the X-ATM092's artificial intelligence knew. The war machine wrenched its arm from the crag and propelled itself into the air once more, landing directly in front of them and cutting off their escape. Portions of the archaic bridge crumbled away and plummeted into the sea, and the tremor jostled loose the teetering Galbadian transport. There was an ominous splash as the truck hit the waves and vanished beneath them.

They had nowhere to run now; the crawling automaton was at full power and had trapped them. They might try their luck in the water, but even if they avoided being dashed to pieces on the rocks, they would never be able to swim to the extraction point in time.

 _There has to be a way!_

A sphere of crimson energy suddenly began to pulse at the end of the hunter's lower sensor.

"Squall!" cried Zell, intuitively moving towards the edge to jump for his life. "That's a Galbadian Ray-Bomb! We have to get off the bridge or we'll be toast!"

A thin laser shot from the Black Widow's head and crisscrossed the cobblestone road at their rear, outlining a target blast zone for the series of tiny explosives that would imminently follow. The cumulative effect of these smaller detonations was an immense shockwave, capable of rending flesh from bone.

"No!" Selphie screamed in defiance, raising her nunchaku again as she summoned her magical wall. "Stay behind me!"

It was a valiant effort; Selphie's shield held, but their surroundings did not. The western end of the generations-old walkway erupted in a hailstorm of brick and mortar, leaving a massive chasm in its wake between the party and the Hasberry Mountains. The force of the bombs had been mostly repelled by Selphie's magic, but the ear-splitting crack and the sunburst of light in their periphery had not been diluted much. Zell fell to his knees, clutching his head, while Selphie passed out as her body succumbed to the monumental strain of nullifying such an explosion.

There was nowhere to go now but the water.

" _Nothing to do but die,_ " Ifrit remarked flippantly. " _Are you going to let yourself be destroyed by this_ thing?"

Fury surged through Squall's veins: Hatred, anger, fear, pain. Every adverse emotion that warriors trained their lives to overcome was rushing to the surface; everything he had suppressed was now overflowing, manifesting as raw power. The immediate crisis had awoken something within him, and the swordsman acted on pure instinct.

He charged at his opponent, Revolver slashing each vital point of its makeup with the ferocity of a cornered lion. His trigger pulls were timed with surgical precision to maximize impact. Letting out a final roar, Squall brought his blade up the center of the Black Widow's midsection, unleashing a swell of flames as he did so, igniting several of the armaments in its frame.

Then, like a puppet whose strings had been cut, the chassis dropped, the sensors went silent, and the LEDs on its exterior turned dark. Momentarily weakened by the rush of strength, Squall leaned against the X-ATM092's sizzling shell to catch his breath.

"Is… is it over?" croaked Zell, taking a tentative step towards the wreckage, gaping at his comrade's handiwork.

The automaton was in bad shape, to be certain. The armored plating that protected its most vulnerable components was strewn on the ground, and its joints were mangled. The desperate attack was one that Squall had never performed before, but he had studied the theory. Dubbed _Renzokuken_ – "repeating sword" in the Centran language – the chain of strikes relied on perfect pacing. Each successive trigger was amplified by the momentum of the previous one and, if delivered correctly, the blade's vibration would cause heat to build exponentially within the steel. All things considered, Squall was quite satisfied with the results.

Then, the AI spoke.

"Restoration at twenty percent."

The digital scanners came back online with their eerie red lights, accompanied by the internal droning of motors and grinding of gears. Aside Squall's legs, its giant crab pincers began to click.

"The hell?" the Saber demanded. "What's going on?"

"Son of a blitz," Zell cursed, backing away from the collapsed arachnid. "It's repairing itself! And damned quickly too!"

 _It was all for nothing._

"We need to go! Now!"

Dashing along the road, Squall crouched by Selphie and tried to shake her awake. The girl was in a rough state; beneath the limp strands of her bob that had fallen across her face, her complexion was as pale as the moon overhead, and she could barely keep her turquoise eyes focused. However, the sight of the motionless husk seemed to rouse her enough to move.

"What did I miss?" she asked, allowing herself to be supported by Zell.

"We don't have time," the shadowboxer replied. "Just eight minutes before the boats leave us."

Hoisting themselves over the Black Widow, the trio made it into the city proper, galloping up the ruined Via Vascaroon. Numerous citizens of the residential ward had emerged onto the streets to survey the damage, and a few groups of older men and women were attempting to clear some of the debris.

"Get out of the way!" Zell bellowed as they passed. "Back in your homes! It's not safe!"

One of the ladies responded with a rude gesture, but hesitated as the terrible clanking of the X-ATM092's spiderlike limbs reverberated around them. The tenement buildings shook violently, and Squall risked a glance over his shoulder. The artificial abomination had tilted onto its side and was marching after them, with two of its legs finding purchase on the walls of the apartments. Their pursuer was up and running again, and somehow appeared even more determined to exterminate them.

 _It's unkillable!_

As they approached the end of the avenue, Squall spotted the foxhound from earlier rummaging around in some bins. The dog looked up when it heard the commotion created by the Black Widow and let out a piteous howl of warning, but Zell shooed it away, seconds before the automaton caught up to them. As they rounded the corner into Empire Plaza, racing towards Via Zebalaga, the monstrosity barreled through one of the restaurants' seating areas, scattering the tables like makeshift shrapnel. High above, the bell tower chimed, barely noticeable over the metallic rancor.

They were out of time.

The cadets sprinted as hard as their broken bodies would permit down the main stretch of Via Zebalaga, the smell of the salty air intensifying with every step. Passing the Nautilus junk store, Squall grimaced at the hideous scraping and crunching of the owner's blue roadster being pulverized into an unrecognizable heap. As they neared the Shining Bomber Pub, the X-ATM092 slowed just enough to mount one of the skywalks, simultaneously tearing down the marquee at the tavern's entrance.

Squall had dropped back several paces to create distance between the Black Widow and his comrades, assuming responsibility for protecting them. Ahead, Zell and Selphie darted beneath the grand archway that opened the thoroughfare to the esplanade, and leapt from the elevated street, plunging onto the bloodstained sands of Lapin Beach.

Galbadia's savage brute ploughed through the shop façades, firing a missile at a protruding veranda in an attempt to cut Squall off. Wood and redbrick rained down on the Saber, the demolished terrace burying half the boulevard. Splinters tore through his exposed skin and ripped his uniform, but he did not falter, bursting from Via Zebalaga like a man possessed.

Squall bolted towards the surf and vaulted the barrier, the colossal menace smashing the archway behind him, devastating the centuries-old crest of the Holy Dollet Empire. Most of the SeeD vessels had already departed, but one – _Abadon_ – remained to await the missing troops, with Quistis sitting at the mounted gunner position. Seeing Squall, she let out a war cry and began to spin the huge chain gun. Zell and Selphie had made it to the breach at the rear of the assault boat, the latter waving frantically for him to hurry.

Squall ran faster now than he thought was humanly possible, but, even at low tide, the strip of beach seemed as vast as the Kashkabald Desert.

The Black Widow crashed onto the sand at his rear and Quistis unleashed a barrage of .50-caliber bullets. Boarding the craft, Squall turned to watch the enemy creeping closer, the high-powered ammunition having little effect. The hurricane of projectiles continued to sound off, round after round carving deep craters on its reinforced shell. Quistis was white-knuckled on the trigger as the X-ATM092 lurched onto its hind legs again, preparing to take out the vessel with another Ray-Bomb.

As the chain gun's spool came dangerously near to depleting, Quistis hit something useful at last, shattering the neon-red sensors and blinding the robot. The automaton emitted a tremendous screech and primed its final attack. Its armor was gone, and its frame was full of bullet holes. The energy swelled, reaching critical mass within seconds. It was now or never.

"Come on!" Quistis roared.

And then, at last, the decisive shot arrived.

One of the hundreds of rounds had pierced its stabilizer unit, causing the spider crab to crumple helplessly. Staggered, there was no way for it to target or deploy its armed bombs. The Black Widow exploded in a fireball of metal and ash, lighting up Dollet's skyline for all to see. With a low rumble, the _Abadon's_ breach sealed, and commenced the SeeD candidates' return journey to Balamb.


End file.
